3  34  E 


crr 


3". 


THE 
SCARRED   CHIN 


THE 

SCARRED  CHIN 


BY 

WILL   PAYNE 

Author  of  "Mr.  Salt,"  "The  Losing 
Game,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1919 
BY  WILL  PAYNE 


VAIL-BALLOU    COMPANr 


THE 
SCARRED   CHIN 


2137590   * 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 


CHAPTER  I 

,  let  him  go  to  the  devil!  "  said  Alfred  Dinsmore 
one    afternoon    in    a    moment    of    exasperation, 
adding  ungraciously,  "  Meddlesome  blockhead !  " 

He  said  it  at  a  meeting  of  the  directors  of  the  Dins- 
more  Company,  of  which  he  was  president  and  chief 
stockholder ;  and  from  that  trivial  ebullition  of  ill 
temper  unfolded  a  series  of  events  which  affected  his  life 
more  profoundly  than  any  calculated  decision  ever  had. 

North  of  the  river,  in  Chicago,  stand  two  immense 
structures  of  dun  pressed  brick,  each  covering  a  large 
irregular  city  block.  They  are  of  about  the  same  size 
and  exactly  alike  in  architecture.  A  street  separates 
them,  but  enclosed  passage  ways,  running  above  the 
street  at  the  several  stories,  connect  them  like  the  liga- 
ments of  the  Siamese  twins.  Their  uniform  dun  bulk, 
arising  from  a  swarm  of  small,  dingy  buildings,  give  the 
impression  of  a  great,  mediaeval  castle  dominating  a 
cluttered,  ragged  city.  The  roof  of  each  building  sup- 
ports an  enormous  electrical  sign,  "  The  Dinsmore 
Company,"  whose  glow  reaches  many  miles  out  into  the 
lake  at  night. 

The    environment    is    mean  —  mostly    shabby    brick 

1 


2  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

buildings  on  ill-paved,  ill-cleaned,  belittered  streets  ;  but 
a  shabby  environment  is  no  disadvantage  to  the  Dins- 
more  Company.  Its  business  is  transacted  by  mail  — 
what  is  known  as  a  "  mail-order  house,"  selling  mer- 
chandise of  all  sorts  to  patrons  over  the  country  by 
post.  And  ground  is  comparatively  cheap  up  there; 
hence  the  selection  of  that  dingy  site. 

The  twin  dun  bulks,  with  their  several  stories,  corn- 
tain  acres  of  floor  space;  but  not  enough  acres.  The 
growing  business  demands  more  room.  Alfred  Dins- 
more  had  foreseen  that.  For  a  year  the  company,  act- 
ing through  various  agencies,  had  been  quietly  picking 
up  parcels  of  realty  in  the  smaller  city  block  to  the 
east  —  looking  to  the  time  when  the  gigantic  dun  twins 
would  become  triplets.  The  company  bought  virtually 
the  whole  block  —  covered  with  shabby  buildings  that 
would  be  razed,  to  give  place  to  a  new  structure  of 
pressed  brick  matching  the  older  two. 

One  of  those  shabby  buildings  —  narrow  and  four 
stories  high  —  was  used  as  a  hotel,  whose  grimy  face 
would  have  dismayed  wayfarers  with  nice  taste.  But 
wayfarers  in  that  particular  region  were  not  much  af- 
flicted with  nice  tastes.  The  name  of  the  establishment 
was  the  Sheba  Hotel,  presumably  referring  to  the  cele- 
brated queen  of  that  title.  There  was  a  row  and  shoot- 
ing in  the  Sheba  Hotel,  whereupon  it  transpired  that 
the  police  gave  the  concern  an  ill  reputation. 

Six  months  or  so  before  this  row  and  scandal,  J.  Wes- 
ley Tully  acquired  possession  of  the  Daily  Leader,  at 
the  top  of  whose  editorial  page  his  name  appeared  in 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  3 

thick  black  letters  as  editor  and  owner.  He  affected 
a  sensational  style  of  journalism.  One  morning  the 
Leader  appeared  with  a  news  article  and  an  editorial 
the  burden  of  which  was  that  the  Sheba  Hotel  was  a 
disreputable  resort  and  that  the  rich,  respectable  Dins- 
more  Company  owned  it.  Mr.  Tully  wanted  to  know, 
in  large,  double-leaded  type,  whether  the  Dinsmore 
Company  was  going  to  stand  forth  in  the  eyes  of  the 
community  as  owner  of  a  disorderly  house. 

So  far  as  the  directors  of  the  Dinsmore  Company 
were  concerned,  Mr.  Tully  achieved  his  intention  to 
produce  a  sensation.  Probably  the  Sheba  Hotel  was 
a  disreputable  establishment.  The  Dinsmore  Com- 
pany did  own  it.  Five  eminently  respectable  business 
men  —  heads  of  five  eminently  respectable  families  — 
had  to  look  that  disquieting  fact  in  the  face  as  they 
sat  around  the  directors'  table.  Four  of  them  were 
decidedly  aghast  —  with  a  feeling  that  they  had  mys- 
teriously been  caught  in  a  dive,  with  white  aprons  on, 
serving  drinks. 

Of  course  Tully's  attack  was  really  unfair.  The  di- 
rectors were  hardly  aware  that  such  an  institution  as 
the  Sheba  Hotel  existed.  They  were  holding  the  prop- 
erty in  its  present  state  only  temporarily  until  the 
old  buildings  should  be  torn  down.  The  hotel  had  a 
valid  lease  on  the  premises  it  occupied,  with  nearly  a 
year  to  run.  They  were  not  responsible  for  the  lease, 
which  had  been  made  long  before  their  purchase. 
Until  the  lease  expired  the  hotel  could  not  be  dispos- 
sessed except  by  payment  of  a  heavy  bonus  or  litigation. 


4  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Imputing  moral  responsibility  to  them  was  very  unfair 

—  a  cheap  trick  of  yellow  journalism  to  make  a  sen- 
sation and  impugn  some  rich  men. 

The  fifth  member  of  the  board  was  not  aghast,  but 
exasperated.  That  member  was  Alfred  Dinsmore. 
He  was  then  fifty  two  years  old,  with  a  strong  com- 
pact, square-shouldered  figure.  His  thick,  iron-grey 
hair,  although  it  was  properly  combed  and  parted,  did 
not  lie  smoothly  down  on  his  head  but  bristled  up 
wavily  as  though  each  hair  were  charged  with  an 
energy  that  prevented  a  recumbent  position.  His 
thick,  short  beard  —  iron-grey  also  —  showed  a  ten- 
dency, to  curl.  Women  often  remarked  that  he  was  a 
handsome  man.  His  manner  was  usually  cool,  poised, 
decisive;  his  blue  eyes  had  greyish,  steely  glints.  The 
impression  he  commonly  gave  was  that  of  self-mastery 

—  a  man  well  in  hand ;  and  this  may  have  made  his 
face  commonly  rather  immobile  and  mask-like,  but  very 
often   subdued  humour  was  peeking  out  through  the 
composed  air. 

Years  back  —  before  he  settled  in  this  more  solid 
and  conservative  mail  order  enterprise  —  he  had 
figured  conspicuously  in  speculation  on  the  Board  of 
Trade ;  and  in  reminiscences  of  that  comparatively 
youthful  phase  of  his  career,  his  nerve  was  spoken  of 
with  admiration  and  respect.  Men  often  remarked 
that  he  had  a  high,  hot  temper.  Perhaps  a  life-long 
struggle  with  that  had  given  him  the  composed,  some- 
what mask-like  air. 

Unfair  as  J.  Wesley  Tully's  imputations  were,  the 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  5 

Dinsmore  Company  was  in  a  disagreeable  situation. 
As  owner  of  the  land  it  was  receiving  rent  from  this 
smudgy  Sheba  Hotel.  At  almost  any  other  time  Al- 
fred Dinsmore  would  probably  have  taken  the  con- 
servative, business-like  course  and  said,  "  Buy  the  fel- 
low's lease  at  any  reasonable  figure,  shut  up  his  hotel 
and  get  this  mess  off  our  hands."  But  he  was  deeply 
disturbed  just  then;  he  had  a  quarrel  with  life  on  his 
hands.  His  health  was  excellent.  His  wealth  was 
computed  by  informed  gossip  at  twelve  or  fifteen 
million  dollars.  His  business  was  in  the  most  flourish- 
ing state.  He  was  happy  in  the  firm  affection  of  a 
charming  wife.  He  had  a  son  who  was  at  least  credit- 
able and  most  likable.  That  son  was  as  happily  mar- 
ried as  his  father  could  wish.  Alfred  Dinsmore  seemed 
a  man  on  whom  Fortune  had  showered  all  her  favours. 

But  he  had  one  other  possession,  the  dearest  of  all, 
bound  round  with  every  string  of  his  heart  —  a  daugh- 
ter. And  he  and  his  daughter  were  not  good  friends 
any  more.  That  made  the  whole  draught  bitter. 

There  was  that  deep  disturbance  in  Alfred  Dins- 
more's  mind.  As  a  slight  contributory  cause,  the 
weather  was  rotten.  This  was  December  —  the  week 
before  the  holidays  —  and  so  dark  that  in  spite  of  the 
broad  windows  in  the  directors'  room  electrics  were 
burning.  Outside  it  looked  like  a  kind  of  ghastly 
night,  and  a  drizzle  of  cold  rain  mixed  with  big-flaked 
soggy  snow  was  beating  down  the  mean  streets  driven 
by  a  wind  off  the  churned  lake.  For  three  days  now 
unstable  Chicago  weather  had  been  doing  about  that  — 


6  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

and  just  before  Christmas  —  which  of  itself  was 
enough  to  exasperate  a  sensitive  man. 

Dinsmore  was  hot  at  Tully's  cheap,  unfair  trick. 
He  resented  being  bulldozed.  He  resented  Tully's 
triumphant  chuckle  at  having  forced  the  hand  of  the 
Dinsmore  Company.  So  he  said,  impatiently: 

"  Oh,  let  him  go  to  the  devil !  Meddlesome  block- 
head!" 

When,  at  meetings  of  the  directors  of  the  Dinsmore 
Company,  the  president  spoke  with  that  decisiveness, 
the  matter  was  settled.  So  this  matter  was  then 
settled  and  dropped.  Only  Tilford,  the  vice-president, 
on  his  own  cautious  responsibility,  notified  the  real 
estate  agent  to  tell  the  landlord  of  the  Sheba  Hotel 
that  if  his  establishment  gave  any  further  ground  for 
scandal  the  Dinsmore  Company  would  take  steps  to 
throw  him  out. 

The  landlord  was  duly  impressed  and  did  mend  his 
ways  for  the  time  being  and  so  the  whole  affair  seemed 
over  with.  Yet  unknown  to  any  mortal  a  train  had 
been  fired  that  was  presently  to  produce  a  grand  ex- 
plosion. 

J.  Wesley  Tully's  editorial  vanity  was  wounded  by 
Dinsmore's  indifference  to  his  attack,  which  implied 
that  the  Leader's  opinions  and  utterances  were  of  no 
consequence.  His  personal  vanity  had  been  deeply 
wounded  some  six  months  before  —  on  the  day  when 
his  ownership  of  the  Leader  was  announced  to  the 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  7 

public.  He  often  affected  an  extreme  and  conspicuous 
style  of  dress.  On  that  day  he  appeared  at  the  Boule- 
vard Club  in  a  new  suit  of  a  peculiar  light  shade  of 
brown,  with  shoes,  hat,  shirt  and  flowing  cravat  of  the 
same  colour.  As  newly  announced  owner  and  editor  of 
the  Leader  he  was  in  a  state  of  intensely  gratified  con- 
sciousness of  himself.  He  circulated  about  the  club, 
so  that  everybody  could  see  him  —  and  congratulate 
him. 

Dinsmore,  according  to  his  custom,  was  lunching  at 
the  club.  Four  other  men  of  eminence  in  the  city's 
practical  affairs  sat  at  the  same  table  with  him.  Cer- 
tainly Tully  would  not  overlook  that  important  com- 
pany. He  sailed  up  to  their  table,  showing  his  long 
teeth  in  a  self-conscious  smile,  ready  to  be  duly  con- 
gratulated on  the  great  news  of  the  day  —  his  acqui- 
sition of  the  Leader.  Dinsmore  had  never  cared  much 
for  J.  Wesley  Tully  —  with  an  able  man's  mild  con- 
tempt for  a  bungler  and  a  solid  man's  instinctive  aver- 
sion for  a  frothy  one.  This  open  fluttering  of  self-satis- 
faction mildly  annoyed  him ;  and  he  was  not  very  diplo- 
matic. So  as  the  new  star  of  journalism  came  up  to 
the  table,  he  forestalled  his  discreeter  companions  by 
saying : 

"  Why,  Tully,  if  you  only  had  an  undercrust  and 
were  a  little  better  baked  what  a  lovely  pumpkin  pie 
you'd  make." 

The  clothes  were  of  just  that  hue,  and  in  the  explo- 
sion of  laughter  that  followed  whatever  congratulatory 


8  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

intentions  the  other  four  might  have  formed  naturally 
evaporated.     J.  Wesley  Tully  joined  in  the  laugh  — 
but  hated  Alfred  Dinsmore  from  that  moment. 

So  after  this  incident  of  the  Sheba  Hotel  Mr.  Tully 
bided  his  time,  and  kept  watch.  As  editor  of  the 
Leader  he  had  considerable  influence  with  the  police 
department,  and  under  his  secret  prompting  the  police 
kept  watch  also.  The  reformation  of  the  Sheba  Hotel 
did  not  last  long.  It  interfered  too  seriously  with  the 
landlord's  profits.  One  Saturday  night  in  February 
the  police  raided  the  Sheba  Hotel  as  a  disorderly 
resort,  arresting  various  inmates.  The  long  fuse  was 
burning. 

On  the  Monday  afternoon  following  this  raid,  Jimmy 
Lane,  reporter  on  the  Leader,  slipped  into  the  office  of 
Charles  Purcell,  managing  editor,  with  his  freckled 
face  expanded  in  a  grin. 

"  You  know  the  police  pulled  that  Sheba  Hotel  on 
the  North  Side  Saturday  night,"  he  said. 

The  managing  editor  nodded. 

Jimmy's  grin  broadened.  "  They  found  Tim  Brom- 
ley there.  He  said  his  name  was  George  W.  Simpson 
and  he  lived  in  Peoria.  Of  course  Cap.  Hanford  knew 
him  well  enough,  but  he  wanted  to  string  him  along, 
so  he  asked  him  what  his  address  in  Peoria  was.  Tim 
said  it  was  thirteen  Distillery  Boulevard."  Jimmy 
ended  with  a  cackle. 

Purcell  smiled  also;  but  the  smile  fleeted  and  he 
asked,  "Hanford  tell  you  that?" 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  9 

Jimmy  replied,  "  Yeh  " ;  and,  having  disburdened  his 
mind  of  the  joke,  proceeded  to  talk  about  the  rumours 
of  a  shake-up  of  the  police  department. 

Purcell  discussed  that  subject  with  him  soberly  for 
a  few  minutes  and  gave  him  some  instructions.  But 
the  joke  stuck  in  his  mind  like  a  burr.  Tim  Bromley 
was  a  picturesque  plunger  on  the  Board  of  Trade, 
considerably  in  the  public  eye  ever  since  his  spectacu- 
lar operations  in  oats  the  fall  before. 

The  joke  persisted  in  Pur  cell's  thoughts.  The  fol- 
lowing afternoon  he  went  up  to  the  Chicago  Avenue 
police  station  and  called  on  his  old  friend  Captain 
Hanf ord  —  who  had  been  the  friend  of  a  dozen  brief 
generations  of  cub  reporters.  For  ten  minutes  the 
managing  editor  and  the  veteran  policeman  confiden- 
tially discussed  current  rumours  affecting  the  police 
department.  Then  Purcell  smiled  and  made  an  inci- 
dental remark  —  to-wit :  "  I  hear  you  found  Tim 
Bromley  in  that  Sheba  Hotel  Saturday  night." 

Captain  Hanford  laughed  and  repeated  the  details. 
There  was  a  little  further  incidental  talk  and  Purcell 
took  his  leave,  the  burr  stinging  and  burning  in  his 
mind.  All  the  remainder  of  that  day  and  until  he 
retired  far  past  midnight  his  thoughts  were  running 
upon  it.  At  two  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  he  called 
up  Bromley's  office.  A  feminine  voice  answered. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Purcell,  managing  editor  of  the 
Leader,"  said  Purcell.  "  I  want  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Bromley." 

A  managing  editor  is  a  person  of  consequence  and 


10  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

the  young  woman  gave  him  the   connection  at   once. 

"  Mr.  Bromley  ?  "  Purcell  asked  suavely.  "  This  is 
Mr.  Purcell,  managing  editor  of  the  Leader.  I  want 
to  send  a  man  down  there  to  get  your  views  at  length 
on  this  proposed  rule  about  puts  and  calls.  Could  you 
see  a  man,  any  time  this  afternoon,  if  I  sent  one  down?  " 

Purcell  was  aware  that  the  directors  of  the  Board  of 
Trade  were  talking  about  a  new  rule  affecting  the  trade 
in  puts  and  calls ;  that  the  proposed  rule  was  very 
obnoxious  to  Mr.  Bromley  and  some  other  speculators 
who,  under  his  leadership,  were  trying  to  defeat  it. 
All  that  had  been  discussed  in  the  newspapers  for  a 
week,  but  in  small  type,  over  on  those  back  pages  to 
which  Board  of  Trade  affairs  were  commonly  relegated. 
He  judged  that  Mr.  Bromley  would  be  rather  eager 
to  get  his  views  on  a  front  page.  In  fact,  the  specu- 
lator answered  promptly  that  he  would  see  a  man  from 
the  Leader  any  time  the  next  hour. 

"  I'll  send  him  down  at  once,"  said  Purcell.  "  He'll 
be  there  in  fifteen  minutes." 

Barely  fifteen  minutes  later  a  young  woman  opened 
the  door  of  Mr.  Bromley's  private  office  and  reported, 
"  Man  here  from  the  Leader  to  see  you ;"  and  Mr. 
Bromley  nodded,  signifying  that  the  man  might  come 
in. 

The  man  who  entered  was  an  inch  over  six  feet  tall 
and  very  bony.  The  colourless  skin  of  his  face  seemed 
drawn  too  tight  over  the  osseous  frame  beneath.  His 
hands  and  feet  looked  large,  even  for  his  height;  he 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  11 

appeared  to  need  another  fifty  pounds  of  flesh.  In  his 
right  hand  he  carried  a  heavy  walking  stick,  with  the 
bark  on  it,  and  his  hat.  He  looked  older  with  his  hat 
off  than  with  it  on,  for  the  front  handbreadth  of  his 
head  was  almost  bald.  When  he  had  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  his  dark,  cavernous  eyes  turned  to  the 
stocky,  coatless  man  at  the  desk,  who  by  a  nod  invited 
him  to  be  seated. 

From  his  vest  pocket  the  caller  took  a  crumpled 
piece  of  paper  which  he  straightened  out  and  laid  be- 
fore Mr.  Bromley,  saying,  "  That's  the  only  card  I 
have  with  me." 

The  bit  of  paper  had  been  torn  irregularly  from  the 
upper  left  hand  corner  of  the  editorial  page  of  the 
Leader.  It  contained  the  usual  legend  regarding  the 
place  of  publication  and  the  terms  of  subscription,  and 
this  further  information  for  the  public :  **  J.  Wesley 
Tully,  owner  and  editor;  Charles  Purcell,  managing 
editor."  When  Bromley  had  glanced  at  it,  the  caller 
added,  "  I  am  Mr.  Purcell,  the  managing  editor." 

Whereupon  Mr.  Bromley  got  an  unpleasant  hunch. 
It  struck  him  that  this  didn't  begin  right  for  an  inter- 
view about  puts  and  calls.  He  was  used  to  hunches 
and  tumultuous  vicissitudes  and  sudden  crises;  more 
or  less  he  lived  on  them.  So  his  round  face,  barred 
by  a  reddish  moustache,  expressed  no  surprise.  His 
eyes  merely  narrowed  a  little  as  he  watched  the  visitor, 
waiting  for  the  next  move. 

Purcell  resisted  an  impulse  to  swallow.     His  right 


12  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

hand  closed  convulsively  on  the  heavy  stick.  By  a  great 
effort  he  kept  his  voice  steady  and  held  his  luminous 
brown  eyes  to  the  face  of  the  man  at  the  desk. 

"  I  have  just  been  talking  to  my  friend  Captain 
Hanford,"  he  said.  "  George  W.  Simpson,  of  thirteen 
Distillery  Boulevard  owes  me  a  thousand  dollars.  I'd 
like  to  collect  it." 

He  fought  an  impulse  to  pass  his  fingers  over  his  lips 
and  held  himself  quite  steady,  his  eyes  on  the  other 
man's  face.  But  in  fact  that  required  a  tremendous  ef- 
fort, for  inwardly  he  was  all  a-quake.  He  had  deter- 
mined to  strike  Bromley  for  five  thousand  dollars;  but 
when  it  came  to  uttering  the  words,  something  mys- 
teriously gave  way  within  him  and  "  one  thousand  " 
came  out  of  itself.  He  had  thought  this  enterprise 
over  and  over,  egged  on  by  greed  and  paralysed  for  fear 
—  very  much  as  a  man  who  shuddered  at  the  sight  of 
snakes  might  determine  that  on  a  given  day  he  would 
walk  up  and  take  a  snake  in  his  hand. 

Mr.  Bromley's  mind  was  used  to  working  quickly. 
Success  in  his  line  depended  upon  sizing  up  a  situation, 
taking  a  decision  and  acting  upon  it.  He  met  this 
situation  in  like  manner.  On  the  one  hand  there  was 
risk  of  much  unpleasantness ;  on  the  other  hand 
there  was  a  thousand  dollars.  He  cared  less  for  the 
thousand  dollars  than  for  the  risk.  He  supposed  Cap- 
tain Hanford  was  implicated  in  the  enterprise ;  per- 
haps even  J.  Wesley  Tully.  But  that  was  rather  im- 
material. He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  took  out  a 
personal  check  book,  rapidly  filled  up  a  blank  and 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  13 

signed  it ;  then  spoke  as  follows,  in  a  low  voice  rather 
like  a  growl: 

"  There  it  is.     Take  it  and  get  out." 

Copying  Mr.  Bromley's  method,  Purcell  took  up  the 
check,  glanced  at  it,  thrust  it  in  his  pocket,  arose  and 
walked  out  silently,  clutching  his  stick.  And  he  did 
those  things  automatically,  for  his  will  was  paralysed. 
If  the  interview  had  lasted  two  minutes  longer,  if 
Bromley  had  resisted,  questioned  him,  defied  him,  his 
voice  would  have  begun  to  shake ;  he  would  have  had  to 
swallow;  his  inner  tumult  would  have  shown  in  his 
actions.  Outside  the  office  door,  he  mechanically 
wiped  his  brow,  and  mechanically  got  himself  back  to 
the  newspaper  office,  where  he  shut  himself  in  his  room, 
took  the  check  from  his  pocket  and  contemplated  it. 

He  was  thirty  three  years  old  and  had  never  before 
possessed  as  much  as  a  thousand  dollars.  His  salary 
as  managing  editor  of  the  Leader  was  a  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  week;  but  he  had  enjoyed  that  salary 
only  four  months  —  since  J.  Wesley  Tully  elevated 
him  to  the  position.  Before  that  seventy  five  dollars 
a  week  was  the  most  he  had  earned.  He  was  unmar- 
ried and  in  some  respects  a  model  young  man  —  rarely 
taking  a  drink,  never  smoking,  not  addicted  to  cards, 
nor  extravagant  in  dress  or  living.  Yet  his  money 
was  always  slipping  away, —  partly  in  little,  unsuc- 
cessful speculations  in  bucketshops ;  and  twenty  dol- 
lars here  and  fifty  there  on  a  sure  tip  on  some  sport- 
ing event.  The  tailor  he  patronized  was  a  notch  be- 
yond his  means ;  his  lodging  cost  twenty  five  dollars  a 


14  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

i 

month  too  much.  Because  he  practised  no  conspic- 
uous dissipation  or  'extravagance  he  had  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  a  prudent  chap,  presumably  with  a  good 
many  thousands  salted  down.  More  prodigal  ac- 
quaintances chaffed  him  about  it,  and  the  baselessness 
of  their  assumptions  secretly  galled  him.  He  wasn't 
really  dissipated  or  really  extravagant,  yet  as  to  cash 
in  hand  it  came  to  the  same  thing  as  their  dissipation 
and  extravagance.  And  he  was  getting  old  —  thirty 
three.  Seedy  old  Ben  Smith,  assistant  at  the  exchange 
desk  at  twenty  five  dollars  a  week,  was  only  sixty  one; 
yet  long  dead  and  buried  so  far  as  any  hope  of  beating 
the  game  went.  Purcell  didn't  propose  to  come  to  that 
if  he  could  help  it.  He  looked  upon  the  managing 
editorship  as  his  great  opportunity ;  but  that  was  pre- 
carious enough.  He  hungered  for  money,  yet  was 
really  timid.  There  was  a  tiger  in  him,  and  a  rabbit. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  blackmail  Bromley. 
There  wasn't  much  to  be  proud  of  in  the  way  he  had  car- 
ried it  out;  he  had  got  only  a  thousand  dollars.  But 
the  tiger  had  tasted  blood.  He  resolved  that  there 
should  be  other  opportunities. 

Resolving,  it  seemed,  wouldn't  bring  them.  Three 
months  went  by  and  all  they  yielded  to  Purcell,  save 
work  and  his  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a  week,  was 
the  eating  of  his  own  heart.  Then  the  trivial  matter 
of  a  village  election  and  the  folly  of  J.  Wesley  Tully 
—  with  his  secret  hatred  of  Alfred  Dinsmore  — 
brought  a  grand  prize  into  view. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  15 

At  the  death  of  Stanley,  its  founder,  the  Daily 
Leader  became  involved  in  long,  ruinous  litigation 
under  which  it  steadily  declined.  It  was  J.  Wesley 
Tully  —  then  forty  two  years  old  —  who  finally  got 
the  fighting  heirs  and  despairing  creditors  together 
and  secured  possession  of  the  journalistic  derelict. 

The  new  owner  had  no  experience  in  journalism,  but 
an  unbounded  confidence  in  himself,  which  those  best 
acquainted  with  him  shared  to  only  a  limited  degree. 
He  had  inherited  a  modest  fortune  and  an  honourable 
name,  and  received  a  liberal  education.  Harvard  Uni- 
versity was  one  of  the  badges  with  which  he  decorated 
himself.  After  a  somewhat  aimless  period  he  had  em- 
barked in  the  real  estate  line  and  by  audacity  and  luck 
carried  through  a  series  of  operations  in  down  town 
leasehold  which  were  popularly  supposed  to  have 
netted  him  a  million.  As  usual,  the  popular  supposi- 
tion —  industriously  cultivated  by  J.  Wesley  himself 
—  rested  upon  a  more  modest  foundation  of  fact. 

He  looked  taller  than  he  was  because  of  his  unusual 
slimness  and  he  answered  to  Balzac's  description  of  a 
man  of  genius  in  that  his  face,  with  sloping  brow, 
long  nose  and  short  chin,  suggested  the  face  of  a 
horse.  He  wore  his  straw  coloured  hair  longer  and 
more  abundant  than  common  among  business  men. 
His  pale  blue  eyes  were  near-sighted,  requiring  glasses 
of  high  magnifying  power,  with  thick  lenses.  One 
day  he  might  be  seen  walking  hurriedly  from  the 
Boulevard  Club  wearing  patent  leather  shoes  and  spats, 
a  frock  coat  and  a  very  shiny  silk  hat,  carrying  a 


16  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

gold-headed  ebony  cane.  A  figure  so  attired  was 
rarely  seen  on  a  Chicago  business  street,  and  natu- 
rally attracted  attention.  As  the  editor,  his  head  bent 
somewhat  forward  and  peering  ahead  through  his 
thick  glasses,  hastened  by  like  a  man  on  the  most 
urgent  business,  somebody  was  sure  to  ask  who  that 
was  —  or  many  somebodies  —  and  probably  somebody 
else  would  reply  that  it  was  J.  Wesley  Tully,  editor  of 
the  Leader.  In  fact,  Mr.  Tully's  chief  business  at  the 
moment  was  simply  to  have  that  question  asked  and  so 
answered.  After  he  had  walked  up  Michigan  Boulevard 
he  would  probably  go  across  town  and  walk  down  La 
Salle  Street,  stopping  in  at  a  couple  of  banks. 

Another  day  he  would  appear  in  a  broad-brimmed 
hat,  a  green  suit,  a  red  vest  and  a  pink  shirt.  On 
intervening  days  he  dressed  like  a  sensible  man,  for 
he  had  a  sort  of  genius  at  producing  effects  and  knew 
the  value  of  contrast.  At  the  theatre  he  invariably 
occupied  a  lower  box  and  had  a  boy  from  the  office 
fetch  him  a  sheaf  of  proofs  which  he  solemnly  scanned 
in  the  face  of  the  audience;  and  he  had  a  proper 
dramatic  sense  for  the  moment  when,  by  rising  and 
hurrying  from  the  box,  he  could  get  the  audience's 
undivided  attention. 

In  politics  he  was  an  ardent  reformer  and  tremendous 
democrat.  What  the  reform  happened  to  be  about 
was  comparatively  unimportant.  If  the  Tribune  or 
Herald  or  News  omitted  notice  of  Mrs.  Tully's  tea 
from  its  society  column,  the  uncomprising  democrat 
would  send  over  the  next  notice  himself,  with  a 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  17 

personal  message  to  the  editor  asking  that  it  be 
printed.  Ownership  of  a  daily  newspaper  was  precious 
to  him  as  water  to  the  parched. 

He  lived  at  Elsmoor,  on  the  North  Shore,  where  he 
had  built  himself  a  house  as  unusual  as  his  purple 
vests.  Farther  north  was  the  suburban  village  of 
Highlands  which  was  several  chops  higher  than 
Elsmoor  in  the  social  scale.  Theoretically  any  one  who 
lived  in  Highlands  was  socially  distinguished.  Yet 
actually  a  good  many  people  live  in  Highlands  who 
could  not  claim  that  advantage  —  being  grocers, 
butchers,  delivery  men,  servants  and  the  like. 

The  Highlands  village  board  comprised  five  per- 
'sons  and  was  said  to  be  the  most  opulent  municipal 
government  in  America.  Alfred  Dinsmore  was  presi- 
dent of  it.  But  time  came  when  the  advancing  waves  of 
democracy  ran  even  as  high  as  that.  An  opposition 
ticket,  consisting  principally  of  truck-gardeners  who 
had  settled  within  the  western  confines  of  the  munici- 
pality was  put  in  the  field.  It  offered  J.  Wesley  Tully 
an  opportunity  to  be  intensely  democratic,  to  make  a 
sensation  in  which  he  would  be  the  chief  figure,  and 
to  ease  a  secret  sore  at  Dinsmore.  So  the  Leader  had 
something  to  say  for  the  plain,  democratic  truck-gar- 
deners and  against  the  plutocrats. 

That  was  a  mere  journalistic  aside.  The  great  city 
twenty  miles  farther  south  cared  little  more  for  the 
politics  of  Highlands  than  for  that  of  China.  But  the 
leader  of  the  Highlands  opposition  was  an  ardent  soul 
himself,  imbued  with  the  revolutionary  and  class-con- 


18  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

scions  ideas  of  Socialism.  He  presently  came  to  Mr. 
Tully  with  some  statements  about  the  plutocratic 
government  of  Highlands,  its  lavish  expenditures  for 
fine  automobile  roads  over  in  the  eastern  section  and 
its  callous  indifference  to  some  poor  roads  over  in  the 
western  section  and  so  on  —  urging  Mr.  Tully  to  pub- 
lish them  in  the  Leader. 

Tully  was  busy  at  the  moment,  and  finally  told  the 
man  to  write  a  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  Leader,  set- 
ting forth  those  plutocratic  facts  and  signing  it 
"  Democrat  "  or  "  Tax  Payer  "  or  in  some  such  way. 
That  letter,  he  said,  he  would  have  published  on  the 
editorial  page.  Unluckily  the  letter,  comprising  six 
closely  written  sheets,  was  brought  to  him  just  as 
he  was  about  to  leave  the  office  for  a  banquet  where 
he  was  to  sit  at  the  speakers'  table.  He  glanced  over 
it  hurriedly,  wrote  "  Must,  J.W.T."  at  the  top  of  the 
first  sheet,  gave  directions  that  it  be  printed  on  the 
editorial  page  and  departed  for  the  banquet. 

That  was  the  last  he  thought  about  the  letter  until 
he  read  it  the  next  morning  in  the  columns  of  the 
Leader  and  by  the  time  he  finished  reading  it,  his  heart 
had  missed  several  beats.  In  fact,  his  hasty  examina- 
tion of  the  letter  the  evening  before  had  stopped  at 
the  bottom  of  the  fourth  sheet.  That  far  it  was  a 
political  document  aimed  at  the  alleged  shortcomings 
of  the  plutocratic  government  of  Highlands.  But  in 
the  fifth  and  sixth  sheets  of  the  letter,  Mr.  Tully's 
zealous  correspondent  had  turned  his  attention  to  Mr. 
Dinsmore  in  a  very  personal  and  grossly  libelous 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  19 

manner.  He  said  that  Dinsmore's  famous  mail  order 
house  poisoned  people  wholesale  by  selling  them 
decayed  canned  goods,  systematically  swindled  them  in 
all  other  lines  of  merchandise  and  frequently  just  kept 
their  money,  alleging  that  it  had  shipped  them  articles 
they  ordered  when  in  fact  it  had  done  no  such  thing. 
By  the  time  the  editor  came  to  the  signature  —  "A 
Plain  Citizen  "  —  his  pale  eyes  looked  as  startled  as 
though  he  had  seen  a  ghost,  there  was  a  gone  feeling 
at  the  pit  of  his  stomach  and  his  leaden  heart  rested 
against  the  soles  of  his  shoes. 

Not  many  hours  afterwards  he  learned  that  Mr. 
Dinsmore  had  instructed  the  eminent  law  firm  of  Mel- 
ford,  Farson  &  Winthrop  to  bring  suit  against  the 
Leader  for  libel,  claiming  damages  in  the  sum  of  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Next  day  the 
suit  was  duly  instituted.  The  editor  consulted  his  own 
lawyer  who  advised  him  to  arrange  a  compromise  with 
Dinsmore  if  possible,  because,  legally  speaking,  he 
hadn't  a  leg  to  stand  on. 

It  was  a  calamitous  situation  for  J.  Wesley  Tully. 
He  had  acquired  the  Leader  by  the  use  of  a  limited 
amount  of  cash  and  unlimited  audacity.  The  paper 
had  been  losing  money  ever  since  he  bought  it.  His 
financial  affairs  were  in  a  very  involved,  precarious 
condition.  A  judgment  for  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars  would  floor  him.  Of  course,  that 
judgment  was  a  good  way  in  the  future,  for  trial  of 
the  case  could  easily  be  postponed  many  months,  but 
the  fact  of  the  suit  was  a  body  blow  to  his  credit 


20  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

when  that  credit  was  already  in  a  groggy  condition. 
It  looked  like  a  smash-up  unless,  by  profuse  apologies, 
private  and  public,  and  ample  retraction,  he  could  per- 
suade Dinsmore  to  drop  the  suit. 

J.  Wesley  Tully  hated  that  like  death.  Naturally 
his  restless  egotism  rebelled  at  the  abject  role  which 
it  implied  —  especially  before  Alfred  Dinsmore  whom 
he  profoundly  disliked.  But  in  a  matter  of  life  or 
death  one  must  swallow  one's  pride.  He  returned  to 
the  newspaper  office,  from  his  lawyer's,  in  a  very 
dejected  state  and  with  a  bewildered  feeling  of  having 
been  struck  by  lightning  out  of  a  clear  sky.  He  wanted 
to  get  Purcell's  advice  as  to  how  Dinsmore  could  be 
best  approached  with  a  plea  for  mercy.  Largely  be- 
cause Purcell  was  adroit  enough  to  flatter  him  accept- 
ably, he  had  formed  a  towering  opinion  of  the  manag- 
ing editor's  ability. 

Purcell  had  already  lied  to  him  about  the  fatal  letter. 
He  had  said  that  when  he  saw  the  owner's  "  Must  "  at 
the  top  of  the  first  sheet  —  which,  by  newspaper 
usage,  was  an  imperative  command  that  it  be  printed 
—  he  had  paid  no  further  attention  to  it.  In  fact, 
however,  he  had  read  the  letter  in  proof,  recognized 
its  excessively  dangerous  character  and  considered 
whether  he  should  send  a  proof  over  to  the  banquet 
with  a  note  asking  Tully  to  read  it  again.  But  for 
reasons  of  his  own,  he  held  his  hand.  For  reasons  of 
his  own  he  advised  the  owner  not  to  apologize. 

"Why,  if  I  were  you,  Mr.  Tully,  I  wouldn't  be  in 
any  hurry  about  going  to  Dinsmore,"  he  said  in  a 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  21 

cheerful  tone.  "  I  have  seen  too  many  newspaper 
libel  suits  to  be  much  afraid  of  one.  In  the  dozen 
years  that  I've  been  in  the  newspaper  business  here 
there  have  probably  been  fifty  libel  suits  started.  Not 
one  of  them  has  ever  come  to  anything,  far's  I  know. 
A  man  gets  sore  and  starts  a  libel  suit ;  but  give  him  a 
few  months  to  think  it  over  in  cold  blood  and  he's  not 
so  keen  about  it.  He  knows  the  newspaper  will  be 
right  there  on  the  job  long  after  the  libel  suit  is  over. 
It  may  get  plenty  of  chances  to  tie  the  score.  They 
all  talk  big  about  newspapers,  but  in  their  hearts 
they're  afraid  of  'em.  A  man  who  owns  the  daily 
Leader  needn't  be  in  a  hurry  to  apologize  to  anybody. 
If  this  suit  should  ever  come  to  trial  —  which  I  think 
is  mighty  unlikely  —  no  ordinary  jury  is  going  to  shed 
any  tears  over  the  hurt  feelings  of  a  man  worth 
twelve  or  fifteen  million  dollars.  You  can  bring  in 
that  Highlands  stuff  —  handful  of  plutocrats  running 
the  village  to  suit  themselves  and  leaving  the  poor  truck 
farmers  to  wallow  in  the  mud.  Any  ordinary  jury  will 
eat  that  up.  But  the  suit  will  never  come  to  trial, 
Mr.  Tully.  I  don't  know  much  about  Dinsmore,  ex- 
cept that  he's  got  a  barrel  of  money;  but  most  men 
with  barrels  of  money  will  bear  watching.  If  I  were 
you  I'd  just  let  Dinsmore  think  it  over  a  while  —  and 
meantime  keep  a  little  eye  on  him.  Suppose  we  find 
out  something  about  this  mail  order  business  of  his. 
Like  enough  there's  as  much  truth  as  poetry  in  that 
letter.  Any  way,  we  can  find  out.  And  we  can  find 
out  something  about  Dinsmore  personally.  It  won't 


22  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

do  any  harm  to  keep  a  little  eye  on  him  for  a  spell. 
I'll  take  charge  of  it,  if  you  like.  Apologizing  is  poor 
business  for  a  newspaper,  Mr.  Tully  —  sets  a  bad 
precedent.  Just  as  a  newspaper  man,  I'd  rather  not 
have  Alfred  Dinsmore  going  around  his  clubs  and  the 
banks  and  so  on,  bragging  that  he  made  the  Leader  get 
down  on  its  knees  to  him.  Probably  that  would  get 
other  people  to  thinking  of  demanding  apologies  and 
so  on.  I'd  rather  let  it  stand  that  the  Leader  can 
say  what  it  pleases  about  Alfred  Dinsmore,  even  if 
it's  wrong  —  that  the  only  way  to  get  a  retraction 
out  of  the  Leader  is  to  come  around  and  ask  for  it 
politely,  like  a  gentleman,  and  not  try  to  scare  the 
editor  by  bringing  a  libel  suit.  The  suit  won't  come 
to  trial  for  a  year  anyway.  If  I  were  you,  I'd  just 
let  Dinsmore  think  it  over  a  while  —  and  keep  an  eye 
on  him.  He  may  be  a  mighty  sight  more  anxious  to 
dismiss  the  suit  than  you  are  to  have  it  dismissed 
before  the  end  of  three  months." 

In  that  strain  Purcell  talked  to  his  employer,  who 
responded  like  a  rubber  balloon  when  a  boy  blows  in 
it.  There  was  a  hint  which  secretly  rather  shocked 
him  —  the  hint  of  setting  spies  on  Dinsmore.  But  the 
remainder  of  the  advice  was  so  palatable  that  he 
chose  to  ignore  that. 

"Well,  all  right,"  he  said  finally,  with  a  firm  air; 
"  we'll  just  let  him  think  it  over  a  while." 

Purcell,  knowing  his  chief,  had  merely  thrown  out  a 
hint  of  espionage  upon  Dinsmore  and  had  not  expected 
Tully  to  sanction  it  expressly.  For  J.  Wesley  Tully, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  23 

while  regarding  himself  as  a  tremendous  democrat 
with  one  side  of  his  brain,  also  regarded  himself  as 
a  tremendous  gentleman  with  the  other  side;  and  the 
gentleman  could  not  expressly  condescend  to  this  dirty 
busines  of  setting  spies  on  Alfred  Dinsmore. 

Purcell  understood  that;  but  knew  well  enough  that 
the  vouchers  for  the  spies'  hire  would  be  paid  by  the 
Leader  without  question.  For  his  own  purposes,  he 
wanted  Tully  involved  as  deeply  as  possible;  and  the 
idea  of  spying  on  Dinsmore  was  attractive  to  him. 
It  might  turn  up  something  that  he  could  use  person- 
ally. He  had  an  old  friend  —  Lawrence  McMurtry 
by  name  —  who  was  engaged  in  the  practice  of  law. 
There  were  many  lawyers  —  Melf  ord,  Farson  & 
Winthrop  for  example  —  who  winced  and  even  swore 
under  their  breath  when  McMurtry's  activities  were 
referred  to  as  practising  law,  for  McMurtry's  real 
occupation  consisted  in  fishing  in  muddy  waters  — 
and  the  waters  were  always  muddier  after  he  cast  in 
his  line.  His  practice  of  law,  as  Purcell  know,  in- 
volved a  pretty  constant  employment  of  private  detec- 
tives. The  Morden  Detective  Agency  was  a  sort  of 
adjunct  to  his  office.  To  McMurtry,  therefore,  Pur- 
cell went.  When  the  situation  was  laid  before  him  the 
lawyer  promptly  advised  that  some  servant  —  or 
servants  —  in  Dinsmore's  household  be  bribed.  He 
had  found  that  expedient  very  useful  in  a  number  of 
divorce  cases,  and  he  promised  good-naturedly  to 
take  the  matter  up  for  his  valued  young  friend  the 
managing  editor.  And  Purcell  mentioned  some  gos- 


24  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

sip  —  imparted  to  him  by  his  society  editor  —  about 
Dinsmore's  daughter  and  Mr.  Edward  Proctor.  The 
lawyer  thought  it  would  be  well  to  cast  a  line  in  that 
direction,  also. 

So  the  powder  train  burned.  Dinsmore's  libel  suit 
against  the  Leader  was  filed  early  in  May  —  about 
three  weeks  after  the  village  election  in  Highlands. 
McMurtry  started  his  underground  machinery  in 
operation  directly  afterwards.  A  servant  was  bribed 
and  an  amateur  spy  was  set  on  young  Edward  Proc- 
tor. But  a  fortnight  passed  before  anything  momen- 
tous happened.  Then  a  most  unexpected  factor  de- 
veloped. 


CHAPTER  II 

"TVTEWSPAPERS  made  a  courteous  practice  of  ig- 
j^i  noring  libel  suits  against  any  one  of  them.  It  was 
held  that  to  publish  the  fact  of  such  a  suit  might  give 
other  people  the  bad  idea  of  suing  for  libel  and  that  a 
citizen  so  ill-advised  as  to  resort  to  the  courts  — 
instead  of  relying  upon  the  magnanimity  and  fairness 
of  the  newspaper  to  make  a  suitable  retraction  if  it 
were  in  the  wrong  —  should  get  no  encouragement  by 
having  his  action  communicated  to  the  public. 

But  a  libel  suit  by  a  citizen  of  Alfred  Dinsmore's 
wealth  and  standing  was  far  out  of  the  ordinary ;  and 
J.  Wesley  Tully,  wholly  inexperienced  in  journalism, 
had  many  times  shown  an  annoying  inclination  to  dis- 
regard the  little  amenities  and  unwritten  rules  of  the 
craft.  So  every  other  newspaper  in  the  city  treated 
Dinsmore's  suit  against  the  Leader  as  a  matter  of 
rather  important  news  and  an  evening  journal  —  to 
whom  Tully  was  especially  obnoxious  —  gave  it  a  front 
page  spread  with  photographs  and  a  cheerful  prophecy 
that  it  would  be  the  means  of  driving  a  silly  adven- 
turer out  of  the  journalistic  field.  Two  weeks  later 
the  same  journal  again  referred  conspicuously  to  the 
libel  suit.  That  was  on  a  Wednesday  afternoon. 

The  following  day,  about  midnight,  Purcell  went 
over  to  Vogel's  restaurant,  according  to  habit,  for  a 
bite  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  Whatever  failings  he  had,  lack 
of  industry  was  not  one  of  them,  and  usually  he  stayed 

25 


26  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

at  the  office  until  two  o'clock  or  so  in  the  morning. 
When  he  came  out  on  the  sidewalk  he  found  that  a 
light  rain  was  falling.  The  restaurant  was  a  block 
and  a  half  away,  but  rather  than  return  for  an  um- 
brella he  turned  up  his  coat  collar  and  ran  for  it.  The 
theatre  crowds  had  gone  home  and  the  streets  in  that 
locality  were  mostly  empty.  Half  an  hour  later,  re- 
freshed by  warm  food  and  coffee,  he  ran  back. 

To  reach  his  den  it  was  necessary  to  cross  the  dingy, 
belittered  "  local  "  room  where  the  city  editor  and  his 
staff  worked.  Crossing  this  room  he  noticed  an  old 
negro,  rain-spattered  hat  on  knee,  sitting  on  a  bench 
against  the  wall  beside  the  two  messenger  boys  who 
were  on  duty  there  and  talking  benevolently  to  the 
youngsters.  From  his  yellow  sombrero  hat  and 
general  appeauance  Purcell  recognized  him  as  a  man 
he  had  passed  on  the  street  when  he  ran  to  the  res- 
taurant. 

The  night  city  editor  followed  him  into  his  room, 
looking  rather  puzzled. 

"  An  old  coon  out  there  wants  to  see  the  editor," 
he  said.  "  He  won't  talk  to  me  —  says  he's  got  to  see 
the  editor  himself.  But  he  asked  me  if  this  wasn't  the 
paper  that  Alfred  Dinsmore  sued  for  libel.  He  says 
he's  got  something  to  tell  the  editor  about  that.  He 
don't  look  drunk  or  crazy." 

Newspaper  offices  are  magnets  for  cranks,  and 
usually  adopt  effectual  measure  of  self-protection. 
But  the  night  city  editor  was  uncertain  whether  this 
visitor  belonged  in  the  category  of  mere  annoyances 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  27 

or  was  worth  listening  to.  His  mention  of  Dinsmore's 
libel  suit  raised  a  like  doubt  in  Purcell's  mind  and  he 
promptly  gave  himself  the  benefit  of  it,  saying,  "  Show 
him  in." 

Under  the  strong  light  above  the  managing  editor's 
desk  the  caller  appeared  even  older  than  the  first 
glance  had  suggested.  He  was  evidently  mulatto,  or 
quadroon ;  not  full-blooded  black.  His  beardless  face 
was  deeply  lined  and  the  kinkly  hair  at  either  side 
of  his  head  —  bald  on  top  —  was  snow  white.  He  was 
powerfully  built,  with  broad  shoulders  and  long  limbs, 
but  spare  now  and  the  folds  of  flesh  on  his  chops 
showed  that  he  had  once  been  heavier.  He  came  in 
hat  in  hand,  with  a  slight  smile  and  a  polite  air,  and 
turned  to  shut  the  door  behind  him,  saying,  "  Excuse 
me."  Seated  at  the  end  of  the  desk  he  studied  Pur- 
cell's  face  a  moment,  still  with  his  slight  smile  and 
polite  air.  He  spoke  in  a  drawl  but  with  no  trace  of 
negro,  or  southern,  accent. 

"  You're  the  editor  of  the  Leader?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Yes,"  said  Purcell. 

"  I  saw  in  the  Telegram  that  Alfred  Dinsmore  had 
sued  you  for  two  hundred  fifty  thousand  dollars.  I 
could  tell  you  something  that  would  shut  his  mouth." 

"What  is  it?"     Purcell   asked  brusquely. 

The  negro  smiled  at  the  young  man's  impetuosity 
and  continued  in  his  slow,  unemphasized  way  of  speak- 
ing :  "  I  could  prove  it,  too.  You  don't  have  to  take 
my  word  for  it.  You  can  look  it  all  up  yourself  and 
see  it's  so." 


28  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Purcell  replied  less  curtly,  even  invitingly,  "  Well, 
I'm  ready  to  listen."  He  perceived  that  the  caller 
was  by  no  means  lacking  in  intelligence. 

"  I  reckon,"  said  the  caller,  with  deliberation, 
"  Alfred  Dinsmore'd  give  about  all  the  money  he's 
got  to  keep  anybody  from  knowing  what  I  can  tell 
you.  I  reckon  he'd  think  a  million  dollars  dirt 
cheap." 

Purcell  passed  a  crooked  forefinger  over  his  lips  and 
considered.  They  were  alone.  Anything  that  this 
old  negro  might  say  afterwards  could  be  easily  and 
plausibly  denied.  He  noticed  that  the  man  was 
decently  dressed,  but  there  was  little  likelihood  of  his 
being  a  person  whose  unsupported  statement  would 
carry  much  weight. 

"  You  want  something,"  he  said,  as  though  he  con- 
sidered that  want  quite  natural. 

The  caller  deliberated  a  moment,  peering  hard  into 
the  managing  editor's  face,  and  replied,  more  slowly 
than  usual,  "  Yes,  sir  ...  I  want  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  and  your  oath  that  you  won't  ever  tell  anybody 
that  I  told  you." 

Purcell  smiled  and  replied,  "  That's  quite  a  lot  of 
money." 

"  Not  for  Alfred  Dinsmore,"  the  caller  shrewdly  re- 
torted. 

"  If  it's  worth  a  hundred  thousand,  I'll  give  you  a 
hundred  thousand,"  Purcell  offered. 

"  No,  sir,"  the  negro  replied,  with  polite  determina- 
tion. "  I  got  to  have  it  down  in  black  and  white. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  29 

You  don't  have  to  take  my  word  for  it.  You  can  prove 
it  yourself." 

"  But  even  if  I  proved  it,  it  might  not  be  worth  a  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars,"  the  managing  editor  suggested. 

"  It's  worth  a  million,"  said  the  caller  positively. 
He  deliberated  a  moment  and  added,  in  his  slow,  un- 
emphasized  speech,  "Alfred  Dinsmore's  robbed  and  he's 
killed." 

Purcell  stared  at  him.  His  conjecture  had  been 
that  this  was  some  discharged  house  servant  with  — 
possibly  —  an  old  domestic  scandal  to  reveal.  His 
face  went  a  bit  whiter  and  there  seemed  to  be  a 
wavering  light  deep  in  his  luminous  eyes. 

They  fenced  for  a  few  moments  while  Purcell's  wits 
worked.  He  could  aver,  if  it  became  necessary,  that 
he  had  merely  led  the  man  along  in  order  to  hear  what 
he  had  to  say,  and  thereby  pose  as  an  honourable  citizen 
whose  only  object  was  to  unmask  a  rogue.  He  knew 
well  enough  the  frightful  disadvantage  before  the  law 
of  a  man  who  has  to  confess  that  his  purpose  was  a 
criminal  one.  This  caller's  purpose  was  evidently 
criminal.  So,  after  they  had  fenced  a  few  moments  he 
took  a  sheet  of  note  paper,  with  the  Leader's  letter- 
head on  it,  and  wrote: 

Sixty  days  after  date  I  promise  to  pay  William  Pomeroy 
one  hundred  thousand  dollars,  provided  William  Pomeroy 
fulfils  the  promise  he  has  just  made  me.  And  I  solemnly 
swear  that  I  will  not  tell  any  one  that  William  Pomeroy  told 
me  anything  about  Alfred  Dinsmore. 

J.  WESLEY  TULLY. 


30  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

He  handed  that  to  the  caller  and  waited  to  see 
whether  his  intelligence  and  education  were  sufficient 
to  recognize  its  complete  worthlessness  as  a  legally 
binding  instrument.  The  negro,  having  carefully  read 
it  and  carefully  folded  it,  put  it  in  his  vest  pocket, 
apparently  quite  satisfied;  and  Purcell  innerly  smiled, 
feeling  that  he  had  the  measure  of  the  man  with  whom 
he  was  dealing.  The  negro  considered  a  moment  and 
began,  with  deliberation: 

"  WeU,  sir,  I'll  go  back  to  the  start  and  tell  it  all 
to  you  just  like  it  happened.  .  .  .  There  was  a  man 
named  John  Colby.  He  worked  the  county  fairs. 
There  was  a  wheel  of  fortune  that  he  run  himself. 
Then  he  had  a  soap  game  and  a  phoney  jewellery  game. 
And  he  had  one  of  these  here  ring-throwing  games. 
There'd  be  a  booth,  you  know,  fixed  up  fancy  inside 
and  out,  and  a  great  lot  of  knives  and  revolvers  stuck 
up  in  there.  Then  he  had  some  hard  rubber  rings. 
You'd  pay  a  quarter  for  six  rings  and  then  you'd  throw 
the  rings  at  the  knives  and  revolvers  and  if  you  rung 
one  of  'em,  it  was  yours.  Of  course  he  had  the  most 
expensive  ones  fixed  so's  you  couldn't  hardly  ring  one 
of  'em  if  you  threw  a  hundred  years,  but  there  was 
some  cheaper  knives  down  in  front  that  somebody'd  get 
every  now  and  then.  .  .  . 

"  Old  John,  he  owned  the  whole  thing  and  hired  the 
other  fellehs.  He'd  fix  it  up  with  the  authorities  so's 
to  get  the  concession  for  the  wheel  of  fortune  and  so 
on.  He  had  to  pay  'em  a  license  for  it.  Sometimes 
he  had  to  slip  the  police  or  the  deputy  sheriff  some- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  31 

thing  to  keep  'em  good-natured.  When  there  wasn't 
any  fair,  old  John  would  strike  a  town  where  they  was 
holding  court  or  something  else  to  draw  a  crowd  and 
he'd  set  up  his  games  around  on  the  street  corners. 
This  was  thirty  years  ago  and  better,  that  I'm  talking 
about,  you  understand  —  from  Dakota  down  into 
Texas.  They  didn't  mind  games  of  chance  out  there  in 
those  days ;  poker  room  in  about  every  town  and  faro  if 
the  town  was  big  enough.  There  wasn't  hardly  ever 
any  trouble. 

"  I  took  care  of  the  horses.  We  had  a  big  wagon 
and  three  good  horses  and  drove  all  over  that  country, 
never  bothering  the  railroad.  I  took  care  of  the 
horses,  and  was  kind  of  body-servant  to  old  John.  He 
used  to  drink  a  good  deal.  He  was  a  bad  man  when 
he'd  been  drinking.  Sometimes  he  got  in  trouble  away 
from  the  shows.  He  used  to  play  poker  or  faro  after 
we  was  all  done  spieling  for  the  day.  Sometimes  there'd 
be  a  row.  He  always  took  me  along." 

The  narrator  smiled,  disclosing  a  few  discoloured 
teeth.  "  I  could  twist  a  horse-shoe  in  two  with  my 
hands  in  those  days."  Noting  the  breadth  and  square- 
ness of  the  caller's  fleshless  shoulders,  Purcell  didn't 
doubt  it. 

"  Old  John  was  some  man,  too,"  the  negro  drawled 
on.  "  He  was  really  about  as  old  as  me,  but  they 
called  him  old  John.  He  was  shorter  and  fatter  than 
me  and  wore  a  red  beard,  trimmed  kind  of  round." 
The  negro  paused  to  chuckle  gutturally.  "  He  had  a 
voice  like  a  mule.  He'd  keep  yelling,  '  Try  your  luck, 


32  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

gentlemen;  try  your  luck,'  and  you  could  hear  him 
clear  across  the  fairgrounds.  He  was  sure  quarrel- 
some when  he  felt  like  it.  There  was  Elt  Grew.  He 
run  the  soap  game  and  the  phoney  jewellery.  I'll  ex- 
plain that  to  you.  You  see,  there'd  be  a  stand  about 
five  feet  high  or  maybe  a  little  higher,  with  red,  white 
and  blue  cloth  around  it.  The  crowd  would  be  in 
front  and  Elt  would  stand  up  in  a  little  pen  behind  the 
stand.  He'd  be  standing  on  a  box  a  couple  feet  high 
so  he'd  be  taller  than  the  crowd. 

"  He'd  begin  his  spiel  about  the  soap  —  some  stuff 
he  learned  out  of  a  little  book  old  John  had  —  and  get 
a  crowd  in  front  of  him.  Then  he'd  open  a  suit  case 
and  take  out  about  a  hundred  and  fifty  little  paste- 
board boxes  about  two  inches  and  a  half  long,  covered 
with  blue  paper  with  some  little  gilt  stars  on  it.  He'd 
stack  the  boxes  all  up  in  a  square  pile,  all  the  time 
going  on  with  his  spiel  about  the  soap.  He'd  get  a 
boy  out  of  the  crowd  and  make  lather  and  give  the  boy 
a  shampoo.  Soap  would  cure  dandruff  and  keep  your 
hair  from  coming  out,  he'd  say,  and  make  hair  grow  on 
a  bald  head.  Then  he'd  put  a  bundle  of  five  dollar 
bills  down  on  the  stand  and  roll  his  sleeves  up  higher 
and  hold  a  box  so  the  crowd  could  see  and  put  a  five 
dollar  bill  in  it  and  he'd  go  ahead  that  way  until  he'd 
put  about  thirty  five-dollar  bills  in  boxes.  Then  he'd 
shuffle  the  boxes  all  up  on  the  stand,  mix  'em  all  around, 
and  then  he'd  pick  up  a  box  and*say  '  Who'll  give  me  a 
dollar  for  it  ?  '  Sometimes  a  man  in  the  crowd  would 
give  a  dollar.  But  if  nobody  did,  after  a  minute  or 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  33 

two,  Elt'd  make  a  sign  with  his  hand  and  a  stool  pigeon 
would  come  up  and  give  a  dollar.  That  first  box 
would  have  a  five  dollar  bill  in  it.  The  next  box 
wouldn't  have  anything  in  it,  and  Elt  would  say  *  Try 
it  again  for  fifty  cents,'  and  that  time  there'd  be  a  five- 
dollar  bill  in  the  box. 

"  Of  course,  he  didn't  do  it  just  the  same  way  every 
time  for  after  the  first  day  there'd  be  somebody  who'd 
seen  him  spiel  before,  so  he'd  vary  it.  But  pretty  soon 
he'd  have  the  crowd  coming,  buying  boxes  right  and 
left.  You  see,  the  boxes  all  looked  just  alike  to  an 
outsider,  but  every  one  that  he'd  put  a  five-dollar  bill 
in  had  a  little  star  exactly  on  the  corner.  All  the 
while  he  was  spieling  he'd  keep  shuffling  the  boxes 
round,  kind  of  absent-minded  and  he'd  be  pushing  those 
with  money  in  'em  off  into  the  suitcase,  so  by  the  time 
the  crowd  began  buying  lively  there'd  be  only  two, 
three  boxes  left  with  any  money  in  'em.  It  was  easy 
enough.  Anybody  could  learn  to  do  it  with  a  little 
practice. 

"  The  phoney  jewellry  was  about  the  same.  He'd 
have  sheets  of  brown  paper  that  he'd  roll  up  into  a 
cornucopia.  He'd  put  a  five  dollar  bill  in  a  brass  ring 
that  cost  maybe  five  cents  and  he'd  drop  that  into  the 
cornucopia  so  all  the  crowd  could  see  it  plain.  Then 
he'd  put  in  a  breast  pin  and  a  watch  chain  and  some 
other  stuff  like  that  and  sell  it  for  two  dollars.  When 
he  wanted  to,  he'd  hold  the  cornucopia  with  the  little 
end  open  so  the  ring  with  the  five-dollar  bill  in  it  would 
fall  through  into  his  hand.  That  was  harder  than  the 


34  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

soap  game.  Took  a  pretty  good  man  to  manage  it 
slick  enough  so  the  crowd  wouldn't  catch  on.  Elt  Grew 
could  do  it  slick  enough. 

"  That  summer  —  I'm  talking  now  about  the  summer 
•of  1881 — we  had  a  felleh  named  Ben  Lukens,  sort  of 
a  chuckle-head,  that  run  the  ring-throwing  game.  Any 
child  could  do  that.  Old  John  would  be  running  the 
wheel  of  fortune  and  I'd  kind  of  circulate  around  and 
tell  him  how  the  other  games  was  going.  Sometimes 
I'd  run  the  wheel  a  little  spell  and  he'd  take  a  look 
around  himself.  He  was  always  figuring  that  the  other 
fellehs  might  be  holding  out  something  on  him. 

"  Well,  we  was  out  in  Kansas  that  summer  and  we 
got  kind  of  off  our  track  —  out  at  Buffalo  Centre 
where  we  hadn't  ever  been  before.  Railroad  had  just 
gone  through  there.  I  reckon  they'd  made  the  town 
in  a  week  or  two ;  shingles  hadn't  turned  dark  yet  and 
some  of  the  houses  wasn't  painted.  I  don't  suppose 
it  had  more'n  ten  or  twelve  hundred  inhabitants.  It 
was  the  county  seat,  and  there  was  a  county  fair  and 
old  John  thought  he'd  try  it.  We  wasn't  doing  much 
business.  There  was  a  drygoods  store  on  the  corner 
and  a  poker  room  over  the  drygoods  store.  Old  John 
found  that  out  first  thing.  So  we  was  up  there  first 
evening  after  the  fair  shut  up.  There  was  six  or  seven 
men  playing,  old  John  one  of  'em,  and  maybe  a  dozen 
or  more  looking  on.  I  was  setting  on  a  box  against  the 
wall.  One  of  the  players  was  winning  quite  a  bit.  He 
was  sort  of  a  stout  young  felleh  with  his  coat  and  vest 
off  and  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck  and  a  plaid  cap 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  35 

pulled  down  over  his  forehead.  He'd  got  a  terrible 
wallop  on  the  chin  some  day ;  looked  like  a  mule  had 
kicked  him ;  must  have  broke  his  chin  and  it  hadn't 
been  put  together  right  —  didn't  fit,  you  understand ; 
and  a  big,  kind  of  knotty  white  welt  across  where  it 
had  been  broke."  The  narrator  drew  a  finger  diago- 
nally over  his  own  chin  to  indicate  the  scar. 

"  This  young  felleh  was  winning  quite  a  bit  and  not 
saying  anything  to  anybody  —  just  set  hunched  down 
in  his  chair  sawing  wood.  Pretty  soon  old  John  says 
to  him,  '  You're  the  luckiest  man  in  seven  states,'  and 
scratched  his  head.  His  hair  was  always  all  mussed 
up  anyhow.  That  was  a  signal  to  me,  you  know. 
Plenty  tin-horn  card  sharps  always  drifting  around 
those  poker  rooms  in  those  days  and  old  John  was 
wise.  So  I  just  slid  around  the  room  where  I  could 
watch  the  young  felleh  close.  After  a  while  I  slid  back 
again  and  then  I  looks  at  my  hands  and  says  to  a 
felleh  next  me,  '  My  hands  itch.'  You  see,  I'd  seen  the 
young  felleh  palming  cards. 

"  Well,  I  expected  old.  John  would  start  something. 
He  was  sure  a  quarrelsome  man  when  he  felt  like  it ;  but 
he  just  kept  on  playing  and  didn't  make  me  no  more 
sign  only  I  noticed  he  laid  off  the  young  felleh  with  the 
busted  chin.  Then  by  and  by  he  drew  out  of  the  game 
and  another  man  took  his  place.  Old  John  put  on  his 
coat  and  hat  like  he  was  going  to  leave,  but  he  lingered 
a  little  while  and  sidled  around  the  table.  I  thought 
sure  he  was  going  to  start  something  then.  But  he 
just  stood  there  a  little  while.  Then  he  stepped  up  to 


36  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

the  young  felleh  and  laid  a  hand  on  his  shoulder  and 
says,  '  Taxes  is  due.  The  collector  is  waiting  for  you 
below.'  The  young  felleh  twisted  his  head  to  look  up  at 
old  John  and  old  John  looked  down  at  him.  This  sort 
of  surprised  everybody,  coming  right  in  the  middle  of 
a  hand ;  and  old  John  says  to  the  crowd,  *  I'm  a  sooth- 
sayer from  Sayers,  Ohio,'  and  went  out.  He  was  al- 
ways saying  queer  things  like  that;  so  probably  the 
crowd  forgot  it  all  in  half  a  minute. 

"  He  went  down  the  back  stairs,  me  following.  There 
was  a  wooden  sidewalk  run  along  the  side  of  the  building 
and  it  was  about  two  feet  higher  than  the  ground  and 
old  John  says  to  me,  *  We'll  pitch  our  tents  in  Isreal 
right  here  a  spell,'  and  he  set  down  on  the  sidewalk  and 
I  set  down  beside  him.  Probably  it  was  two,  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  then ;  a  warm  night  and  lots  of 
moonlight.  We  waited  there  maybe  half  an  hour. 
Then  the  young  felleh  with  the  busted  chin  come  out 
of  the  back  door  and  saw  old  John  and  me  setting  there 
and  kind  of  hesitated.  '  Come  hither,'  says  old  John 
to  him.  The  young  felleh  stepped  across  to  us  and 
old  John  didn't  get  up  or  nothing.  He  just  set  there 
on  the  sidewalk  and  says  to  the  young  felleh,  '  I  don't 
care  what  you  do  to  them  lunks  up  stairs,  but  you 
can't  palm  forty  six  dollars  out  of  me.  Produce.' 
The  young  felleh  looked  mighty  sullen,  but  I  reckon 
old  John  and  me  didn't  look  very  good  to  him.  Prob- 
ably I  was  kind  of  grinning  and  John's  hat  was  stuck 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  He  wasn't  a  man  that  any- 
body would  want  to  trifle  with.  So  the  young  felleh 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  37 

stuck  his  hand  in  his  pants  pocket  and  pulled  out  a 
fist  full  of  money  and  started  to  count  out  forty  six 
dollars  and  old  John  just  grabbed  the  money  out  of  his 
hand  and  says,  '  Never  mind  the  change,'  and  sat  there 
looking  up  at  him.  The  young  felleh  looked  like  fight 
for  a  minute  and  squared  his  jaw.  And  I  slipped  my 
hand  in  my  coat  pocket.  I  always  carried  a  black  jack 
handy  in  those  days.  The  young  felleh  just  pulled  his 
cap  down  over  his  forehead  again  and  walked  off,  look- 
ing plumb  discouraged  and  John  and  me  walked  back 
to  the  fair  ground  and  slept  in  the  wagon. 

"  Next  day  this  young  felleh  comes  out  to  the  fair 
ground  and  sees  old  John  at  the  wheel  of  fortune.  He 
stands  around  watching  him  a  while,  and  old  John  kind 
of  watching  out  of  the  tail  of  his  eye,  wondering  what 
he'd  got  on  his  mind.  Pretty  soon  everybody  goes  off 
to  watch  the  horse  races.  They  didn't  have  any  trot- 
ting horses,  but  they  had  running  races  with  bronchos. 
Then  the  young  felleh  comes  up  to  John  and  strikes 
him  for  a  job.  They  had  a  long  spiel  about  it  to- 
gether and  finally  John  offers  him  a  job. 

"  You  see,  old  John  had  been  getting  terrible  sore  on 
Elt  Grew  because  Elt  had  been  boozing  too  much.  The 
rule  was,  '  No  booze  in  working  hours,'  but  Elt  had 
been  getting  himself  pickled  every  afternoon  and  by 
time  his  evening  spiel  come  along  he  was  too  much 
saturated.  John  had  been  cussing  him  out  about  it, 
but  he  and  Elt  had  been  together  a  good  while  and  it 
wasn't  so  easy  to  get  hold  of  a  man  who  could  do  the 
phoney  jewellery  game.  John  told  the  young  felleh  to 


38  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

stand  around  and  watch  Elt  that  evening  and  next 
day  and  practise  up  on  the  part.  And  when  we  left 
Buffalo  Centre  —  fair  only  lasted  three  days  —  old 
John  fired  Elt  Grew  and  put  this  young  felleh  on  in  his 
place.  The  young  felleh  said  his  name  was  Tom  Wil- 
son, and  he's  the  man  you  call  Alfred  Dinsmore." 

Purcell  stared  at  that,  and  passed  a  bent  forefinger 
over  his  lips. 

"  Don't  have  to  take  my  word  for  it ;  you  can  prove 
it  all  yourself,"  the  negro  drawled.  "  He  was  with  us 
a  couple  of  months  and  old  John  took  a  shine  to  him. 
By  and  by  we  went  over  the  line  into  Nebraska  —  to 
Billingtown,  where  we'd  been  three,  four  times  before. 
Pretty  good  business  there.  This  was  a  town  of  about 
twenty  five  hundred  —  pretty  good  country  around. 
The  fair  lasted  all  week.  Tom  Wilson  was  spieling  in 
Elt  Grew's  place. 

"  Well,  nothing  much  happened  till  Tuesday.  But 
I  saw  old  John  wasn't  feeling  right.  I  reckon  prob- 
ably he'd  got  kind  of  low  spirited  on  account  of  parting 
with  Elt  Grew  for  they'd  been  together  a  long  time. 
They'd  been  at  Billingtown  together  two,  three  times  — 
which  kind  of  brought  it  up  fresh  in  his  mind.  You 
see,  except  on  Saturdays  we  usually  didn't  open  up  on 
the  fair  grounds  until  afternoon,  only  Ben  Lukens,  who 
was  kind  of  a  lunk-head  anyway,  would  have  his  ring 
game  going.  Tuesday  John  and  I  goes  up  town,  for 
he  has  some  business.  Comes  half  past  ten,  he  goes  into 
a  saloon  and  takes  a  drink.  He  was  feeling  sort  of 
lonesome,  I  reckon.  I  knew  that  was  a  bad  sign  — 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  39 

drinking  in  the  morning.  He  takes  a  good  many  drinks 
that  forenoon  and  about  one  o'clock  he  goes  over  to 
the  bank.  I  don't  know  just  what  it  was  for,  but  he 
was  going  to  buy  a  draft  to  send  East.  The  amount 
was  a  hundred  and  sixteen  dollars  and  thirty  five  cents. 
He  goes  up  to  the  counter,  with  a  bundle  of  money  in 
his  hand  and  asks  the  cashier  for  a  draft  on  New  York 
for  that  much. 

"  This  cashier's  name  was  Latham.  He  was  a  big, 
fine-loeking  man  with  a  brown  moustache.  Well,  this 
cashier  writes  out  the  draft  and  takes  John's  money 
and  counts  it  and  hands  back  the  change  and  says,  very 
quiet  and  polite,  '  Thirty  five  cents  exchange  for  the 
draft.'  Seems  John  had  bought  a  draft  like  that  some- 
where a  while  before  that  and  they'd  only  charged  him 
fifteen  cents  for  it.  Of  course,  it  didn't  really  amount 
to  anything  anyhow.  But  the  booze  has  got  its  hooks 
in  old  John  by  that  time  and  he's  spoiling  for  a  row. 
'So  he  begins  to  roar  over  the  thirty  five  cents.  The 
cashier  speaks  very  quiet  and  polite,  but  tells  him 
thirty  five  cents  is  the  charge.  I  could  see  that  cashier 
was  having  a  bad  effect  on  old  John  anyway.  'He's  a 
handsome  man,  you  know,  and  shaved  smooth  and  the 
ends  of  his  moustache  twisted  neat.  His  collar  is  very 
shiny  and  his  clothes  like  he  stepped  out  of  a  band 
box,  and  he  speaks  in  such  a  smooth,  polite  kind  of 
way.  Knowing  old  John  well  as  I  did,  I  could  see  he 
was  kind  of  aching  to  muss  that  man  up. 

"  He  sure  did  act  outrageous,  calling  that  cashier  the 
worst  kind  of  names  and  yelling,  '  Robbers  !  Hold  up ! 


40  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Police ! '  till  you  could  have  heard  him  in  the  next  county 
—  and  keeping  it  right  up,  too.  The  front  door  was 
•open  and  people  came  running  from  all  around.  I 
knew  there  was  sure  to  be  trouble  and  had  my  hand  on 
my  black  jack.  I  could  see  that  cashier  turning  pale, 
but  he  tried  to  keep  cool  and  tell  the  people  that  run 
in  that  it  was  just  a  drunken  man.  But  old  John  kept 
it  right  up,  calling  the  worst  kind  of  names.  In  a 
couple  of  minutes  a  kind  of  slim,  wiry  man  with  a 
bushy  beard  and  a  slouch  hat  come  running  in.  The 
cashier  says  to  him,  '  All  right,  Fred,'  quiet  like,  and 
walked  around  in  front  of  the  counter.  I  saw  he  had 
his  hand  in  his  pocket.  It  looked  pretty  bad  when  the 
cashier  came  walking  toward  us  and  I  got  ready. 

"  But  it  surely  happened  too  quick  for  me.  That 
wiry  man  with  the  beard  jumped  just  like  a  cat  and 
hit  old  John  a  terrible  wallop  over  the  head  with  the 
butt  of  a  gun  and  same  time  the  cashier  stuck  a  gun 
against  my  stomach.  You  know  how  it  is  with  a  crowd. 
They  kind  of  stand  around  with  their  mouths  open  until 
somebody  shows  'em  how.  So  in  a  second  three  or  four 
men  grabbed  me.  This  man  with  the  beard  was  the 
deputy  sheriff.  He  and  the  cashier  beat  old  John  up 
some;  then  the  sheriff  took  him  off  to  jail.  Naturally 
I  didn't  have  much  to  say  and  they  let  me  go.  About 
five  o'clock  that  afternoon  they  took  John  out  of  jail, 
before  a  justice,  who  fined  him  twenty  five  dollars  and 
costs  for  disorderly  conduct.  He  had  three  lumps  on 
his  head  where  he'd  been  hit. 

"  That   was   a   lesson   to   old  John;     He'd  been  in 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  41 

plenty  rows  before  that,  but  he'd  never  really  been 
come-up  with  before.  Where  he  made  his  mistake  that 
time  was  starting  rough  house  in  a  bank.  But  I  no- 
ticed always  after  that  he  wasn't  so  ready  to  start  a 
row.  It  was  certainly  a  lesson  to  him.  But  he  took  it 
mighty  hard  —  old  John  did.  Seemed  to  kind  of  grind 
him  through  and  through.  He  was  terrible  sullen  and 
bitter.  Of  course  everybody  knew  about  it.  The 
crowd  around  the  wheel  of  fortune  next  day  was  bigger 
than  ever.  Even  the  women  and  children  was  coming 
up  all  the  time.  Of  course,  they  didn't  come  up  to  play 
the  wheel  but  just  to  look  at  old  John.  There  was  a 
cut  and  big  bruise  on  his  cheek.  The  men  in  the  crowd 
kept  grinning  when  they  looked  at  it.  Old  John  glared 
back  at  'em,  but  he  stuck  right  to  the  job,  spieling  for 
his  wheel  of  fortune.  He  was  proud,  you  know.  All 
that  staring  and  grinning  at  him  ground  him  right 
through  and  through. 

"  Still,  there  wouldn't  anything  have  ever  come  of  it 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  Pete  Sykes.  We  knew  Pete  Sykes 
from  the  first  time  we  ever  showed  in  Billingtown.  Since 
then  he  and  John  had  got  kind  of  confidential.  Pete 
Sykes  called  himself  a  plasterer  and  paper  hanger,  but 
he  didn't  work  at  it  very  steady  only  when  he  was  stony 
broke.  There  was  quite  a  smart  little  gambling  house 
in  Billingtown,  and  Pete  Sykes  hung  out  there  a  good 
deal  —  lookout  at  the  faro  table  and  so  on.  But  there 
wasn't  trade  enough  to  keep  the  little  gambling  house 
going  all  the  time,  so  sometimes  Pete  had  to  work  at  his 
trade.  We'd  always  had  him  for  a  stool  pigeon  at  the 


42  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

soap  game.     He  was  ready  for  any  little  job  of  that 
kind  that  came  along. 

"  I  reckon  Pete  Sykes  sympathized  with  John  over 
what  had  happened  to  him.  Anyway,  I  know  it  was 
Pete  Sykes  that  told  him  about  the  bank.  This  bank,, 
you  know,  was  in  a  brick  building  —  mighty  nifty,  with 
white  stone  trimming  and  tile  floor  and  shiny  counter 
inside.  Pete  Sykes  had  done  the  plastering  and  he 
knew  the  other  men  that  worked  on  it  —  bricklayers 
and  carpenters.  This  was  the  first  brick  building  ever 
put  up  in  Billingtown.  They  had  to  ship  in  the  brick 
and  the  bricklayers,  too.  It  made  a  big  show,  you  see; 
but  it  was  kind  of  a  phoney  building.  When  you  went 
in,  there  was  a  great  big  vault  door,  with  shiny  bolts. 
Looked  like-  you  couldn't  break  it  with  dynamite.  But 
Pete  Sykes  knew  the  walls  of  the  vault  was  just  two 
layers  of  common  brick.  A  good  man  with  a  crowbar 
could  break  in  from  the  outside  in  twenty  minutes  easy 
enough. 

"  Pete  Sykes  had  kind  of  kept  that  in  his  mind,  you 
see.  He  was  a  nervy  man.  I  reckon  if  he'd  known  any- 
body to  tie  up  with  that  he  could  trust,  he'd  have  took 
a  crack  at  that  bank  before.  He  knew  old  John  had 
plenty  nerve  for  anything,  and  John  was  sure  mighty 
sore  at  that  cashier.  There  was  a  safe  inside  the 
vault  —  where  the  money  was  —  but  old  John  knew 
something  about  that,  too.  He'd  knocked  all  around 
the  country  and  mixed  up  with  all  sorts  of  people,  so 
he  knew  just  how  they  did  it.  They  took  some  nitro- 
glycerine stuff  and  mixed  it  up  somehow  — '  soup,'  they 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  43 

called  it  —  and  they  put  that  around  the  door  of  a 
safe  and  touched  it  off  with  a  fuse  and  blew  the  door 
off.  Maybe  old  John  hadn't  ever  done  it  himself,  but 
he'd  talked  with  'em,  and  knew  just  how  they  did  it. 
He  was  a  man  that  was  always  picking  up  information. 

"  Well,  old  John  and  Pete  Sykes  talked  it  over. 
They  was  ready  enough.  One  trouble  was,  this  cashier 
lived  up  over  the  bank.  It  was  a  two-story  building 
and  the  cashier  lived  up  stairs.  But  they  reckoned  that 
when  they  blew  the  safe  it  wouldn't  take  'em  more'n  a 
couple  of  minutes  to  grab  what  money  there  was  and 
beat  it.  If  anybody  should  show  up  they  reckoned 
they  could  stand  him  off  for  a  minute  or  two.  But 
probably  nobody  would  show  up  before  they  got  away. 

"  They  raised  a  good  deal  of  wheat  around  there  and 
wheat  was  coming  to  market  lively.  The  bank  had  to 
keep  money  on  hand  to  pay  for  the  wheat.  About 
every  day  a  big  bundle  of  currency  would  come  in  by 
express  from  Omaha.  The  train  got  in  little  after  five 
o'clock.  Old  John  told  me  to  hang  around  the  rail- 
road station  one  afternoon.  Just  after  train  time  this 
handsome  cashier  comes  in  with  a  little  brown  handbag. 
He  signs  the  book  and  the  station  agent  gives  him  a 
bundle,  big  as  that,  with  sealing  wax  all  over  on  it.  The 
cashier  puts  that  in  his  bag  and  goes  back  to  the  bank 
—  maybe  twenty  thousand  dollars. 

"  Of  course,  old  John  was  too  foxy  to  start  anything 
right  then,  after  him  having  that  trouble  with  the 
cashier.  We  just  finished  up  that  week  at  the  fair  and 
then  moved  on  to  Bleeker  where  we  showed  next  week. 


44  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

From  there  we're  going  to  Standing  Rock.  That's  a 
fifty-mile  drive.  In  Bleeker  John  goes  around  com- 
plaining that  two  of  his  horses  ain't  well ;  he's  afraid 
they've  got  distemper.  He  tells  me  to  do  the  same. 
We  closed  up  in  Bleeker  Friday  morning  only  leaving 
Ben  Lukens  and  the  ring  game,  for  he's  a  lunk  head  any- 
way, and  drove  to  a  little  place  called  Inland  and 
camped  on  the  bank  of  a  creek  that  hadn't  hardly  any 
water  in  it  a  couple  of  miles  out  of  town.  John  tells 
me  to  take  one  of  the  horses  and  ride  into  town  and  get 
some  condition  powders.  All  this  stuff  about  the 
horses  being  sick  was  to  make  an  alibi,  you  see.  This 
town  is  twenty  three  miles  from  Billingtown.  Half  past 
nine,  old  John  and  me  and  the  felleh  we  call  Tom  Wilson 
got  on  the  horses  and  rode  to  Billingtown.  By  that 
time  old  John  has  taken  a  shine  to  this  felleh  we  called 
Wilson.  We  don't  urge  the  horses  any  —  saving  'em 
up  for  the  ride  back,  so  it's  pretty  near  one  o'clock  when 
we  get  in. 

"  Just  to  the  west  edge  of  Billingtown  there's  what 
they  call  a  draw  out  in  that  country  —  ravine,  I  reckon 
you  call  it  here  —  long,  deep  gulley,  you  know.  There 
was  some  scrub  trees  growing  in  it.  We  tied  our  horses 
to  the  trees  and  right  there  Pete  Sykes  bobbed  up. 
He'd  been  waiting  for  us.  He  lived  in  a  little  house 
without  any  paint  on  it,  not  more'n  ten  rods  the  other 
side  of  the  draw.  Old  John  is  carrying  a  grip  with  his 
stuff  in  it.  Lord  knows  where  he  got  the  stuff  —  tools 
and  the  '  soup  '  and  so  on.  But  he'd  got  it  all  right. 
Pete  Sykes  pulls  a  crowbar  and  a  cold  chisel  and  a 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  45 

wooden  mallet  out  from  among  the  trees.  Then  John 
.lines  me  and  Tom  Wilson  up  and  gives  us  our  instruc- 
tions over  again.  There's  a  two-story  frame  building 
on  one  side  of  this  bank,  you  see,  and  a  one-story  frame 
building  on  the  other  side;  then  comes  an  alley.  And 
there's  outside  stairs  on  the  back  of  the  bank  building 
that  go  up  to  the  second  story  where  the  cashier  lives. 
John  has  picked  a  night  when  there  ain't  any  moon, 
but  it's  some  lighter  than  we'd  like.  Tom  Wilson  is  to 
stand  out  back  of  the  bank,  by  the  stairs  that  come 
down,  and  keep  watch,  and  I'm  to  stand  by  the  corner 
of  this  one-story  frame  building  where  I  can  keep  watch 
of  the  alley.  We're  to  give  a  whistle  if  anybody  comes. 
"  Well,  we  started  over  town  about  two  o'clock,  each 
one  going  alone,  and  we  met  back  of  the  bank.  Tom 
Wilson  and  I  took  our  places  and  Pete  Sykes  and  old 
John  went  to  work  at  the  wall.  Every  now  and  then  I 
can  hear  'em  plain  as  day  —  chink,  chink  against  the 
brick,  like  they'd  wake  up  the  whole  town.  Seemed 
like  it  takes  'em  all  night,  too  —  a  terrible  long  while ; 
I'm  looking  for  sun-up.  Then  Pete  Sykes  touched  my 
arm  and  whispered  to  me,  *  Ready  now ! '  and  I  know 
they're  ready  to  touch  it  off.  He'd  been  to  Tom  Wil- 
son, too.  I  reckon  Tom  Wilson  was  all  wound  up  just 
like  I  was  —  so  tight  I'm  ready  to  bust.  Then  there's 
the  awf ullest  noise  you  ever  heard  —  like  a  whole  navy 
blowing  up,  it  seems  to  me  —  only  it's  kind  of  dull  and 
muffled.  Probably  I  ought  to  have  stayed  at  the  alley, 
but  I  knew  they're  about  ready  for  the  get-away,  so  I 
just  naturally  drifted  toward  the  bank. 


46  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Tom  Wilson,  by  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  must  have 
been  excited  like,  too,  and  looking  around  toward  the 
bank.  I  seen  a  white  figure  come  running  down  the 
back  stairs.  It  was  this  cashier  in  his  night  shirt. 
Tom  Wilson  was  sort  of  in  the  shadow  of  the  stairs  and 
I  guess  the  cashier  didn't  see  him.  Anyway,  Tom  Wil- 
son sees  this  figure  when  it's  almost  right  on  him.  That 
was  the  account  he  give  of  it  afterwards.  He  sees  the 
figure  when  it's  almost  right  on  him  and  he  never  says  a 
word  —  just  naturally  blazes  away.  And  the  cashier 
sort  of  toppled  over  and  caught  at  the  wooden  railing 
of  the  stairs  and  blazed  at  Tom  and  then  fell  down. 

"  Old  John  come  crawling  out  of  the  hole  in  the  wall 
and  run  out,  with  a  gun  in  his  hand  looking  around.  I 
saw  him  quite  plain  —  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head  and 
looking  mighty  wild  and  bad.  Pete  Sykes  was  crawling 
out  of  the  hole,  too.  Then  John  yells  a  cuss  at  him 
and  runs  back  and  drives  him  in  and  crawls  in  himself. 
Lord  knows  how  long  they're  gone,  but  when  they  come 
out  they'd  got  the  money  and  we  all  beat  it  for  the  draw 
without  thinking  to  divide  ourselves  like  we  did  when 
we  come ;  but  running  in  the  dusty  road  where  we  don't 
make  any  noise. 

"  When  we're  pretty  near  there  Tom  Wilson  sort  of 
wobbled  a  minute  and  fell  over.  John  come  back  and 
looked  at  him  and  says,  '  He's  hit.'  Then  he  and  Pete 
Sykes  talk  mighty  fast.  Pete  says,  *  Take  him  to  m^ 
house ;  I'll  see  to  it.'  They  talk  a  second  and  Pete  and 
I  picked  Tom  Wilson  up,  head  and  feet,  and  carried 
him  to  the  back  door  of  Pete  Sykes'  shack.  The  door's, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  47 

unlocked,  and  we  carried  him  in  and  laid  him  on  the 
floor  and  Pete  says  to  me,  '  Beat  it ! '  I  certainly  was 
agreeable  to  that.  Old  John  was  some  ahead  of  me. 
When  I  got  to  the  draw  he  had  the  horses  untied,  and 
we  lit  out,  me  leading  the  horse  Tom  Wilson  had  rode. 
We  rode  all  the  horses  would  go  for  half  an  hour,  but 
didn't  make  hardly  any  noise  in  the  dusty  road,  and 
then  we  took  it  easier;  but  kept  pushing  right  along 
and  when  we  got  back  to  camp  we  couldn't  see  that 
anybody'd  been  around  there.  We  rubbed  the  horses 
down,  and  old  John  went  off  a  ways  and  buried  the 
money  for  that  night.  Then  we  turned  in. 

"  Nobody  come  near  us  all  next  forenoon.  If  any- 
body did  come  around  I  was  to  say  Tom  Wilson  and 
old  John  had  a  row  Friday  afternoon  and  old  John 
fired  him  and  he  left  us  about  three  miles  this  side  of  a 
place  called  Kedron  that  we'd  drove  through  and  that's 
the  last  I  saw  of  him.  I  had  a  regular  story  to  tell 
about  it.  Old  John  and  me  had  went  over  it  carefully. 
But  nobody  come  near.  So  about  three  o'clock  that 
afternoon  we  hitched  up  and  drove  on  to  Standing  Rock 
where  we  got  in  eight  o'clock  that  night.  We  set 
around  the  wagon  that  evening  and  nobody  said  a  word 
to  us.  Next  morning  we  met  up  with  Ben  Lukens  and 
John  told  him  about  firing  Tom  Wilson  and  afterwards 
I  told  it  to  him.  And  we  went  on  with  our  business, 
only  we  couldn't  open  up  with  the  soap  game  and  the 
phoney  jewellery  for  we  didn't  have  anybody  to  spiel. 
But  somehow  John  got  track  of  Elt  Grew  and  tele- 
graphed him,  and  Tuesday  afternoon  Elt  showed  up. 


48  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

John  told  him  about  firing  Tom  Wilson  and  they  shook 
hands  and  Elt  went  back  to  spieling,  and  so  we  was  all 
ship  shape  again. 

"  I  don't  know  what  old  John  was  hearing  from 
Billingtown  then  or  whether  he  was  hearing  anything, 
but  he  kept  warning  me  to  be  mighty  careful  what  I  said 
because  likely  there'd  be  detectives  nosing  around  try- 
ing to  get  something  on  us.  Of  course,  there  was  a  lot 
in  the  newspapers  about  the  robbery  of  the  bank  at 
Billingtown  and  killing  the  cashier.  The  cashier  was 
unconscious  when  they  found  him  and  never  said  a  word 
before  he  passed  out.  There  was  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
citement about  that.  John  says,  '  You  know  what  it 
means  for  us,'  and  put  his  hands  around  his  neck.  You 
can  believe  I  was  careful  to  say  nothing  to  nobody,  and 
always  watching  out  for  anybody  nosing  around. 

"  It  come  along  Thursday  or  Friday,  I  don't  remem- 
ber which.  The  crowd  had  gone  over  to  the  horse  races 
and  old  John  and  me  was  at  the  wheel  of  fortune  booth 
when  up  come  a  gentleman  and  lady.  They  looked  like 
folks  that  amounted  to  something.  The  man  was  sort 
of  stout  and  had  a  beard  cut  down  to  a  point  with 
maybe  three,  four  grey  hairs  in  it  —  good  clothes  and 
carrying  a  cane.  He  looked  like  somebody.  The  lady 
was  a  nice-looking  lady,  too,  and  walked  with  her  hand 
on  his  arm  like  she  was  nervous.  They  come  right  up 
to  the  booth  and  the  man  talked  right  out  to  old  John. 
He  said,  '  You  had  a  young  man  in  your  company  at 
Bleeker  —  engaged  in  selling  soap,  I  believe.  We  want 
to  find  that  young  man.  This  lady  is  his  mother.' 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  49 

"  Well,  old  John  told  'em  the  story  about  firing  Tom 
Wilson  and  they  listened  and  the  lady  hung  pretty  tight 
to  the  gentleman's  arm  and  her  lips  trembled  so  she  put 
her  fingers  up  to  'em  now  and  then.  The  man  talked 
right  out  like  it  was  straight  goods  and  asked  John  ques- 
tions about  Tom  Wilson  —  how  long  he'd  known  him 
and  where  he  met  him  and  so  on  and  John  told  him, 
except  he  didn't  say  he  met  Tom  Wilson  in  a  poker 
room  palming  cards.  He  just  said  Tom  Wilson  come 
up  to  him  and  asked  for  a  job.  The  man  talked  mighty 
nice  and  like  he  was  on  the  level.  By  and  by  he  said 
the  young  man  they  was  talking  about  was  a  reckless 
kind  of  young  man  and  he'd  disappeared  from  home  and 
his  family  was  very  anxious  about  him  and  so  on.  He 
said  a  friend,  who  was  acquainted  with  the  young  man, 
had  seen  him  on  the  fair  ground  at  Bleeker  and  soon's 
this  friend  got  back  to  St.  Joseph,  Missouri,  where  the 
young  man's  home  was,  he'd  told  this  here  gentleman 
about  it  for  the  gentleman  was  his  uncle.  So  he  had 
found  out  where  old  John  had  went  to  from  Bleeker  and 
he  and  the  young  man's  mother  had  come  to  find  him. 
He  talked  very  nice  about  it  and  the  lady  was  mighty 
nervous. 

"  Old  John  said  he  might  likely  come  across  that 
young  man  again  and  if  he  did  he'd  let  him  know.  And 
the  uncle  gave  old  John  his  card.  His  name  was  Elliot 
and  he  was  a  lawyer  in  St.  Joe,  Missouri.  The  card 
had  his  address  on  it.  And  old  John  said  he'd  sure 
drop  him  a  line  if  he  ever  come  across  that  young  man 
again.  Old  John  was  foxy,  you  know.  He  saw  these 


50  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

people  amounted  to  something;  probably  they  had 
money  and  a  big  pull,  so  that  might  be  a  good  thing  in 
case  of  trouble  coming  up  over  what  had  happened. 
He  talked  fine  and  benevolent  to  'em  about  the  young 
man  and  young  men  generally.  He  says,  '  Colts  will  be 
colts  till  they're  broke.'  And  he  calls  the  lady  '  Mrs. 
Elliot '  once  or  twice  on  purpose  and  she  corrects  him 
and  says,  '  Mrs.  Dinsmore ;  Mr.  Elliot  is  my  brother.' 
And  old  John  gives  the  young  man  quite  a  fine  charac- 
ter, and  when  they're  gone  he  writes  down  '  Dinsmore  * 
«on  the  back  of  the  lawyer's  card  so  he  won't  forget  it. 

*'  Him  and  me  talks  it  over  after  they'd  gone  and  he 
^wondered  whether  they  was  on  the  level,  but  I  believed 
they  was  from  the  way  the  gentleman  talked  and  the 
lady  trembled  and  how  her  eyes  looked.  So  that's  how 
we  knew  Tom  Wilson's  right  name  was  Dinsmore.  Still 
nobody  was  troubling  us  about  what  had  happened  at 
Billingtown ;  and  next  week  we  went  on  to  Blue  Creek. 
There  wasn't  any  fair  there,  but  it  was  court  week  and 
we  were  going  to  stay  two,  three  days.  Second  day, 
up  comes  Pete  Sykes  and  Tom  Wilson  with  his  arm  in  a 
sling.  They  walked  right  up  to  the  wheel  of  fortune, 
like  they  was  thinking  of  buying  some  paddles.  You 
paid  a  quarter,  you  know,  for  a  wooden  paddle  with  a 
number  on  it  and  if  the  wheel  stopped  at  that  number 
you  won. 

"Once  in  his  life  old  John  was  sure  jarred.  He 
pretty  near  stopped  spieling  and  glared  at  'em.  This 
Sykes  was  a  reckless  sort  of  man  when  he  got  started. 
Seems,  in  that  fast  talking  they  did  when  they  found 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  51 

Tom  Wilson  was  shot,  old  John  had  told  Pete  Sykes  to 
come  to  Blue  Creek,  but  he  didn't  expect  him  to  walk 
right  up  to  the  booth  in  broad  daylight  with  Tom 
Wilson  along,  his  arm  in  a  sling.  But  Sykes  argued 
that  was  just  as  good  a  way  to  do  it  as  any  other.  He 
said  everybody  was  all  off  the  trail  about  the  Billing- 
town  business  anyway. 

"  Sykes  told  what  had  happened.  Seems  after  we 
got  Tom  Wilson  into  his  house,  he'd  got  him  into  a  bed- 
room, they  having  two  bedrooms.  His  wife  was  living 
with  him  in  the  house,  but  I  reckon  he  wasn't  a  very 
pleasant  man  to  live  with.  From  the  way  he  talked 
she'd  never  open  her  head  about  it  because  she  didn't 
dare.  He'd  looked  Tom  Wilson  over  himself  and  by 
and  by  his  fever  had  come  up  and  Sykes  had  gone  out 
and  got  a  doctor  he  knew.  This  doctor's  name  was 
Dill.  That  came  out  because  Sykes  said  he'd  give  the 
doctor  two  thousand  dollars  to  keep  his  mouth'  shut 
and  that  was  all  the  money  he'd  got  out  of  the  bank 
except  about  three  hundred  dollars.  Old  John  had  got 
the  rest  of  it.  Old  John  said  two  thousand  was  too 
much  and  he  said  Sykes  mustn't  try  any  holding  out 
games  on  him.  And  then  Sykes  gave  the  doctor's  name. 
It  was  Dill,  but  I  don't  remember  the  initials  now. 
Pete  Sykes  said  old  John  could  go  and  ask  him  if  he 
wanted  to. 

''  You  see,  old  John  was  kind  of  sore  and  suspicious 
and  Pete  Sykes  didn't  intend  to  be  done,  either,  and 
they  had  quite  an  argument  about  it;  but  sure  they 
couldn't  afford  to  quarrel  and  both  of  them  knew  that. 


52  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

This  Dr.  Dill  must  have  been  a  skate.  He  played  poker 
and  drank  and  Pete  Sykes  knew  him  from  the  ground 
up.  Pete  Sykes  said  he  had  something  on  him  —  a 
woman  he'd  operated  on  against  the  law  and  she'd  died 
—  so  Dill  was  bound  to  keep  his  mouth  shut.  Well, 
they'd  kept  Tom  Wilson  hid  there  and  this  Dr.  Dill  had 
looked  after  him ;  and  so  there  they  was  in  Blue  Creek 
waiting  for  the  diwy. 

"  Old  John  pitched  into  Tom  Wilson ;  said  he  was  an 
idiot  to  shoot  when  he  could  have  held  up  the  cashier. 
Tom  Wilson  was  sullen  and  mighty  nervous.  He 
wanted  to  get  some  money  and  light  out.  They  got  to 
feeling  sore  at  each  other.  Old  John  was  riled  anyway, 
because  he  thought  the  shooting  was  all  foolishness  and 
it  put  his  neck  in  a  noose,  and  because  Tom  Wilson  had 
come  down  there  with  his  arm  in  a  sling. 

"  Pete  Sykes  said  he  promised  Dr.  Dill  two  thousand 
dollars  more  and  old  John  says  Dr.  Dill  can  go  to  hell. 
Old  John's  got  twenty  thousand  dollars  and  some 
change.  He  divides  it  in  four  pieces  and  Pete  Sykes 
says,  '  You  going  to  give  the  coon  a  full  share?  '  mean- 
ing me.  Old  John  says,  '  Sure  he  gets  a  full  share.' 
So  they  divide  up  the  money  and  Pete  Sykes  and  Tom 
Wilson  go  away  and  afterwards  old  John  give  me  a 
thousand  dollars.  That's  thirty  one  years  ago  and 
from  that  day  to  this  nobody  ain't  ever  said  a  word 
about  the  Billingtown  business  to  anybody  that  had  a 
hand  in  it." 

The  negro  paused  there  for  a  moment  while  Purcell 
shaved  his  lips  with  a  bent  forefinger. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  53 

"  I've  never  took  it  to  myself,"  the  caller  added,  with 
an  aged  smile,  "  because  if  Tom  Wilson  hadn't  got  rat- 
tled there  wouldn't  have  been  any  shooting.  That  was 
just  an  accident." 

Purcell,  however,  was  not  much  interested  in  that 
delicate  point  in  casuistry.  "  How  do  you  know  Tom 
Wilson  is  Alfred  Dinsmore?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I'm  coming  to  that,"  the  negro  replied,  with  the 
implication  of  a  polite  rebuke.  "  You  see,  old  John 
was  terrible  sore  about  that  shooting  business.  He 
thought  it  was  all  foolishness  on  Tom  Wilson's  part, 
and  it  put  his  neck  in  a  halter.  He  thought  it  brought 
him  bad  luck.  He  used  to  call  Tom  Wilson  the  worst 
kind  of  names  about  it.  Seemed  like,  just  after  that, 
they  begun  shutting  down  on  him.  Seemed  like  people 
begun  to  get  down  on  gambling  generally.  He  had  all 
kinds  of  trouble  getting  permission  to  spiel  at  the 
county  fairs  and  on  the  streets,  where  he  ain't  never  had 
any  trouble  at  all  before.  They  said  the  gambling 
games  and  the  soap  and  phoney  jewellery  wouldn't  do 
any  more.  The  country  was  getting  more  settled  up 
all  the  time;  more  eastern  people  coming  in.  They 
begun  to  get  tony  ideas.  Gambling  houses  shut  up  all 
over ;  no  more  wheels  of  fortune. 

"  That  made  it  pretty  hard  for  old  John.  He'd  been 
working  that  country  that  way  eight  or  ten  years  then, 
and  he'd  got  sort  of  settled  in  the  habit.  He  tried  giv- 
ing prizes  at  the  wheel  of  fortune  instead  of  paying 
money  —  winner'd  get  a  little  alarm  clock,  or  a  gilt 
vase.  But  that  didn't  catch  on  like  the  old  game  did; 


54  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

made  it  pretty  hard  for  old  John.  He'd  done  right 
well  with  his  games  generally  speaking;  but  if  he  had 
good  business  one  week,  probably  he'd  lose  all  the  money 
playing  poker  or  faro  middle  of  the  next  week.  It  was 
always  sort  of  hand  to  mouth,  as  the  saying  is.  So 
when  they  begun  to  shut  down  on  him  that  way  he  was 
up  against  it  —  and  mighty  sore. 

"  We  struggled  along  about  five  years,  but  they  was 
always  sort  of  whittling  us  down  finer.  The  big  wagon 
and  one  of  the  horses  went  and  we  drove  around  in  a 
two-seated  buggy.  By  and  by  the  last  horse  and  the 
buckboard  goes.  Old  John  and  me  is  travelling  on 
trains.  We  felt  humiliated. 

"  Well,  sir,  it's  five  years  and  we  was  cleaned  out. 
Old  John  had  always  kept  that  lawyer's  card  from  St. 
Joe  and  the  way  he's  got  it  in  his  mind  Tom  Wilson  is 
responsible  for  all  our  troubles.  Old  John  was  worse 
tempered'n  a  she-bear  then,  so  we  scraped  the  bottom 
of  the  bin  and  went  to  St.  Joe.  Old  John  didn't  tell  me 
a  word  about  it  them.  He  just  told  me  to  lay  low  and 
keep  my  mouth  shut  and  keep  out  of  all  trouble  or  he'd 
cut  my  heart  out.  You  see,  old  John  was  peculiar  that 
way.  Lots  of  times  he'd  never  say  a  word  to  me. 
Then,  by  and  by,  when  he'd  had  a  few  drinks  and  was 
feeling  good,  he'd  tell  me  all  about  it. 

"  Certainly  I  had  my  own  idea  what  we  was  doing  at 
St.  Joe,  because  I  knew  that  was  where  Tom  Wilson 
lived  and  plenty  times  old  John  had  let  words  slip  when 
he  was  cussing  Tom  Wilson  out  for  the  bad  luck.  I 
had  my  own  idea ;  but  I  never  said  a  word ;  just  lay  low 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  55 

like  he  told  me.  We  was  there  six  days  and  then  old 
John  come  in  with  a  bank  roll  that  would  choke  a  horse 
and  we  lit  out  for  San  Antonio.  Afterwards  he  told 
me  about  it,  like  he  usually  did.  He'd  went  to  spying 
out  the  land  and  finding  out  about  this  Mrs.  Dinsmore. 
He  found  where  she  lived  —  in  a  good  house  on  a  good 
street.  Then  he  hung  out  at  a  livery  stable  up  that 
way  and  got  'em  to  talking.  Everybody  knew  about 
the  family  —  Dinsmore  and  Elliot ;  they  were  swells, 
you  know,  so  everybody  knew  about  'em.  Her  hus- 
band was  dead  and  had  left  her  some  money.  He'd  been 
in  the  grain  business.  There  was  two  boys,  brothers ; 
but  both  of  'em  had  gone  away  from  home  a  good  while 
ago  and  one  of  'em  was  dead.  Other  was  up  in  Chicago. 
That's  all  the  folks  old  John  talked  with  could  tell 
about  the  sons. 

"  Of  course,  that  was  sort  of  discouraging  for  old 
John.  He  didn't  know  how  to  get  the  address  of  the 
son  in  Chicago  and  he  wasn't  sure  whether  that  was 
Tom  Wilson  or  Tom  Wilson  was  the  one  that  had  died. 
It  would  be  just  his  luck  to  have  Tom  Wilson  the  dead 
one.  Looked  like  he  was  up  against  it.  You  see,  that 
made  him  sorer  than  ever.  He  was  a  terrible  desperate 
kind  of  man  when  he  was  sore.  He  hung  around  and 
kept  watch  of  the  Dinsmore  house.  The  way  he 
figured  it,  that  house  owed  him  a  lot  of  money  and  was 
trying  to  do  him  out  of  it.  One  day  he's  walking  down 
toward  the  house,  up  against  a  stone  wall  and  terrible 
sore,  and  he  sees  this  Mrs.  Dinsmore  come  out  of  the 
yard  and  start  up  the  street,  and  old  John  walks  right 


56  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

on  until  he  meets  her,  him  standing  in  the  middle  of  the 
sidewalk,  his  hat  on  the  back  of  his  head.  And  he  says, 
*  Excuse  me,  ma'm.  Maybe  you  don't  remember  me, 
but  I'm  the  county  fair  man  your  son  worked  for  in 
Bleeker,  Nebraska.  I'd  like  to  have  a  little  conversa- 
tion with  you.' 

"  Guess  there  wasn't  any  danger  of  anybody  ever 
forgetting  old  John,  with  his  round  red  beard  and  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head.  This  Mrs.  Dinsmore  goes 
white  as  a  sheet  and  pretty  near  falls  over  and  says, 
'  Come  into  the  house,'  like  a  woman  all  up  in  the  air. 
So  old  John  goes  back  to  the  house  with  her  and  she 
takes  him  in  a  room  and  shuts  the  door.  She's  so  scared 
she  can  hardly  stand  up;  pretty  near  faints  away,  old 
John  tells  me;  and  she  promised  to  come  across  with 
ten  thousand  dollars  almost  before  he  could  get  around 
to  ask  for  it.  She's  scared  stiff,  you  see.  She  tells 
him  to  come  back  there  at  eight  o'clock  .that  evening. 

"  Well,  sir,  she  has  come  across  so  easy  that  old  John 
is  sort  of  suspicious.  He  goes  away  and  thinks  it  over 
—  thinks  maybe  she's  setting  a  trap  for  him.  But  you 
couldn't  bluff  old  John  very  easy  —  especially  not  when 
he's  desperate  like  he  was  then,  and  the  woman  did  surely 
act  like  she  was  scared  stiff.  So  eight  o'clock,  up  he 
marches  to  the  front  door  and  she  lets  him  in,  and  sure 
enough,  she's  got  ten  thousand  dollars  there.  She 
makes  him  swear  on  the  Bible  that  if  she  gives  him  the 
money  he'll  go  straight  away  and  never  say  a  word  to 
anybody.  Old  John  swears  it  with  a  face  as  straight 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  57 

as  a  deacon's  and  puts  the  money  in  his  pocket  and  goes 
away. 

"  He  can't  figure  it  out  exactly ;  but  one  thing  he's 
dead  sure  of  —  she  knows  her  son  shot  that  cashier  at 
Billingtown  and  the  son's  alive  or  else  she'd  never  have 
come  across  that  way  and  been  scared  so  stiff.  How 
she  found  it  out,  John  don't  know.  Maybe  he  con- 
fessed it.  But  John  is  dead  sure  she  knows  it,  or  she'd 
never  have  come  across  that  way.  He  remarks  to  me, 
*  So  we've  got  a  little  anchor  to  the  windward,  William.' 
It  does  seem  like  that  changed  our  luck,  too.  We  went 
down  to  San  Antonio  and  all  around  that  Southwest 
country.  ..." 

The  negro  broke  off,  deliberated  a  moment  and  ob- 
served, gravely,  "  Probably,  no  need  my  telling  you  all 
about  that  because  it  don't  have  any  bearing  on  the 
main  story.  Old  John  and  me  got  along  first  rate  for 
five,  six  years.  I  forget  exactly  how  long  it  was.  Then 
we  got  in  bad  again.  There  was  right  serious  trouble 
in  a  place  down  there  and  we  beat  it.  We  didn't  have 
much  money  left,  either.  So  we  goes  back  to  St.  Joe, 
and  the  Dinsmore  house  has  been  sold  and  she's  moved 
up  to  Chicago  where  her  son  is.  Naturally  we  moved 
up  to  Chicago,  too.  We  was  better  off  that  time  in  one 
way.  First  time,  we  didn't  have  anything  but  the  name 
Dinsmore  and  the  name  of  the  lawyer,  Elliot,  that  was 
her  brother.  We  had  to  trace  her  down  from  that. 
But  that  first  time,  in  St.  Joe,  old  John  got  her  full 
name,  so  we  had  that  to  go  on  in  Chicago  even  if  we 


58  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

didn't  have  any  address.  We  went  to  Chicago  and  old 
John  put  up  at  a  hotel  he  knew  about.  He  looked  in 
the  city  directory  and  the  telephone  book;  and  found 
*  some  Dinsmores,  but  not  the  right  name.  He  asked  the 
hotel  clerk  how  a  man  would  go  at  it  to  find  an  address 
that  wasn't  in  the  directory  or  the  telephone  book,  and 
when  he  told  the  clerk  it  was  prominent  people  the  clerk 
showed  him  a  blue  book  that  had  the  names  and  ad- 
dresses of  the  prominent  people  in  it.  That  way  old 
John  found  the  address.  It  was  down  on  the  South 
Side  which  was  the  swell  part  of  town  then.  Old  John 
spotted  the  house  and  hung  around  till  he  caught  her 
on  the  street  again  and  she  come  across  with  another 
ten  thousand. 

"  He  struck  her  for  twenty-five  and  she  was  scared 
stiff  and  swore  she'd  have  to  sell  some  jewellery  to  get 
ten  right  away.  Old  John  proposed  to  go  right  after 
the  son  for  the  twenty-five;  but  she  was  scared  stiff 
and  talked  so  wild  about  calling  the  police  or  a  lawyer 
that  he  thought  she  might  get  hysterical  and  start  some- 
thing, so  he  decided  to  take  ten  then  and  her  promise 
to  give  him  ten  more  a  month  from  then.  They  fixed 
it  up  that  he  was  to  telephone  her  and  she  was  to  tell 
him  when  to  come  to  the  house  to  get  the  money. 

"  Old  John  was  kind  of  dissatisfied  and  thought  she 
was  stringing  him  some  and  he  ought  to  go  after  the 
son  himself.  But  he  concluded  ten  wasn't  so  bad  after 
all.  We  took  a  trip  to  New  York,  which  proved  pretty 
expensive,  for  John  had  poor  luck.  End  of  the  month 
we  come  back  and  got  another  ten  and  went  to  Montana 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  59 

and  that  country.  There  was  talk  about  Alaska  then 
and  by  and  by  we  went  up  there.  Long  and  short  of  it 
is,  it  was  near  ten  years  before  we  got  back  to  Chicago. 
John  got  fifteen  then,  and  about  five  years  later  we 
come  back.  That  was  near  four  years  ago.  We  been 
on  the  payroll  ever  since. 

'*  You  see,  that  last  time  —  near  four  years  ago  — 
John  was  going  to  make  a  hog-killing.  The  Dinsmores 
had  moved  then.  They  was  living  in  that  big,  swell 
house  up  in  Highlands  and  everybody  said  Alfred  Dins- 
more  had  barrels  and  barrels  of  money.  That  mail- 
order business  was  bringing  in  it  by  the  bale.  Nat- 
urally that  made  old  John  ambitious  and  he  struck  for 
a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  That's  one  thing  he  ain't 
never  told  me  much  about.  I  know  he  met  the  son  that 
time  —  Alfred  Dinsmore.  I  reckon  they  sort  of  went 
to  the  mat.  This  son  ain't  the  kind  of  man  you  can 
bluff  very  much.  I  reckon  him  and  old  John  went  to  the 
mat.  Old  John  come  away  sort  of  sore  and  grouchy 
and  dissatisfied  and  talked  some  about  starting  some- 
thing ;  but,  of  course,  he  wasn't  really  in  very  good  shape 
to  start  anything. 

"  Long  and  short  of  it  is,  the  son  agreed  to  pay  him 
six  hundred  every  month.  It's  the  fifteenth  of  every 
month,  unless  that  comes  on  Saturday  or  Sunday,  then 
it's  on  Friday.  I  go  up  there  to  the  big  house  and  get 
it  myself,  eight  o'clock  every  evening.  I'm  carrying 
a  little  grip,  you  know,  like  I  might  be  bringing  some 
papers  or  something.  I  go  around  the  side  door.  The 
butler  always  lets  me  in  there  and  goes  *to  another  room 


60  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

with  me  —  fine  room  with  books  all  around  the  walls. 
There's  Alfred  Dinsmore  himself.  I  say,  *  Good  even- 
ing,' and  he  nods  back  and  I  open  my  grip.  He  puts 
the  money  in  it.  I  say  *  Thank  you,  sir,'  and  make  a 
little  bow  and  he  nods.  The  butler's  there  in  the  hall 
and  takes  me  back  to  the  side  door  and  lets  me  out. 
You  come  up  to  the  gate  with  me  next  fifteenth  of  the 
month  and  I'll  show  you  my  empty  grip  when  I  go  in 
and  the  money  in  it  when  I  come  out.  I  recognized  this 
Alfred  Dinsmore  for  Tom  Wilson  first  time  I  set  eyes  on 
him.  Of  course  he  wears  a  beard  now  to  cover  up  his 
busted  chin  with  the  scar  on  it,  but  anybody  that  had  a 
good  look  at  him  back  there  in  Billingtown  would  rec- 
ognize him  now." 

The  negro  seemed  to  have  finished. 

"And  you  take  the  money  to  old  John?"  Purcell 
asked. 

The  negro  did  not  answer  for  a  moment ;  but  rubbed  a 
bony  hand  over  the  bald  ridge  of  his  head.  Then  he 
said,  very  gravely: 

"  No,  sir.  Old  John  Colby  passed  out  more'n  a  year 
ago.  Alfred  Dinsmore  killed  him.  I'm  sure  of  it.  Old 
John  wasn't  never  really  satisfied  with  that  arrange- 
ment about  six  hundred  dollars  a  month.  He  went  to 
see  Dinsmore  about  it  one  evening.  And  that  night  he 
died  —  very  sudden.  I'm  sure  he  was  poisoned  up 
there.  This  here  Alfred  Dinsmore  is  a  bad  man  to  go 
against.  He's  got  the  worst  kind  of  knife  you  ever  saw 
—  buckhorn  handle  so  long  and  when  you  touch  a 
spring  in  it,  out  pops  a  blade  big  enough  to  cut  your 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  61 

throat  twice  over.  He  showed  it  to  me  one  evening 
when  I  was  up  there.  He's  a  bad  man  to  go  against. 
I  know  he  killed  old  John  Colby." 

The  caller  said  it  deliberately,  in  a  subdued  voice, 
and  Purcell  thought  there  was  fear  in  his  eyes. 

"  That's  why  you're  never  to  tell  anybody  I  told  you 
this,"  he  continued.  "  If  Dinsmore  knew  I  told  you, 
he'd  cut  my  throat  sure  as  sun  up  —  no  matter  what 
happened  to  him  for  it.  That's  the  kind  of  man  he  is. 
I  wouldn't  ever  face  him  down  myself  for  I'd  be  dead 
before  morning  if  I  did.  But  I'll  tell  you  something. 
There's  a  coloured  man  here  used  to  live  in  Billingtown, 
Nebraska.  We  got  to  talking  one  time,  two,  three  years 
ago,  and  he  told  me  he  used  to  live  there  and  then  I 
said  I  worked  in  a  barbershop  there  once  for  two  weeks 
and  I  got  to  asking  him  about  some  people  I  remem- 
bered. He  said  Pete  Sykes  was  living  there  yet  and 
Dr.  Dill  had  went  away  from  there  only  a  few  years 
before  and  last  he  knew  he  was  living  in  Bent  Bow.  You 
could  get  hold  of  one  or  the  other  of  them  if  they  knew 
there  was  money  enough  in  it.  They'd  identify  this 
Alfred  Dinsmore  in  a  minute.  You  could  show  this 
Alfred  Dinsmore  that  you  could  hang  it  onto  him  if  he 
didn't  come  across  and  the  man  that  identified  him 
could  turn  state's  evidence  and  save  his  own  neck." 

The  negro  paused  again  and  laid  his  hand  on  the 
corner  of  Purcell's  desk  for  emphasis.  "  But  me,  you 
understand,"  he  said  earnestly,  "  I'd  never  face  this 
Alfred  Dinsmore  with  it  myself  because  he'd  sure  kill 
me  if  I  did.  You  got  to  leave  me  out  of  it.  Maybe  I 


62  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

wouldn't  have  come  to  you  at  all,  only  I'm  afraid  this 
man  is  going  to  poison  me  or  have  my  throat  cut  some 
day  so's  to  be  rid  of  me.  You're  going  stick  to  that 
bargain,  Mr.  Editor?  " 

"  Oh,  certainly !  You  may  depend  upon  that," 
Purcell  answered  readily.  And  after  a  long  moment 
he  ejaculated,  "  Well!  "  for  he  was  still  in  the  grip  of 
a  mighty  astonishment. 

"  I  guess  you  got  it  all  down  there,"  said  the  negro, 
in  his  drawling  speech ;  "  Pete  Sykes  in  Billingtown 
and  Dr.  Dill  in  Bent  Bow  —  last  I  knew  about  'em.  I 
guess  you  got  it  all  down." 

He  was  referring  to  the  pad  of  memorandum  paper 
on  which,  since  the  story  got  well  under  way,  Purcell 
had  been  scribbling  the  names  and  dates  —  with  the 
methodical  habit  of  a  trained  reporter. 

"  I  think  so,"  said  Purcell,  looking  at  his  scribbled 
notes.  "  But  where  can  I  reach  you?  " 

"  I've  give  you  my  name  —  William  Pomeroy,"  the 
caller  replied  gravely,  and  added,  with  an  aged  grin, 
"  I  ain't  changed  it  since  the  old  days  —  except  once  for 
a  spell  after  that  trouble  down  in  Arizona.  I'm  living 
at  Elbridge's  Hotel.  That's  on  South  State  Street." 

He  passed  his  bony  old  hand  over  the  shiny  ridge  of 
his  head  and  urged,  with  a  note  of  anxiety,  "  You  better 
not  be  coming  around  there.  I'm  afraid  of  this  Dins- 
more.  I  want  to  lay  low.  You  better  not  be  coming 
around  there.  I'll  come  here.  If  you  want  to  see  me, 
you  just  telephone  to  Elbridge's  Hotel  and  leave  a 
message  —  say  Mr.  Johnson  wants  to  see  William 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  63 

Pomeroy.  I'll  get  it  and  understand.  Just  say  Mr. 
Johnson  wants  to  see  William  Pomeroy."  He  nodded 
toward  the  memorandum  pad  and  seemed  better  satisfied 
when  Purcell  wrote  down :  "  Mr.  Johnson  —  Elbridge's 
Hotel  —  William  Pomeroy." 

"  That's  it,"  said  the  negro ;  "  telephone  Elbridge's 
Hotel  that  Mr.  Johnson  wants  to  see  William  Pomeroy." 
His  dark  old  eyes  rested  anxiously  on  the  managing 
editor's  face  for  a  moment.  "  You  see,  I'm  taking  a 
big  risk.  My  skin  wouldn't  be  worth  two  cents  if  Al- 
fred Dinsmore  knew  what  I  was  doing.  He's  a  bad  man. 
...  If  he'd  ever  showed  you  that  knife  of  his.  .  .  . 
But  I  ain't  satisfied  the  way  things  is.  I  don't  feel 
safe.  I  want  to  get  out  of  here.  I  want  to  go  back 
to  San  Antonio  —  somewhere  it's  warm.  I  pretty  near 
passed  out  last  winter.  I  ain't  satisfied.  I  want  to  get 
out.  You'll  make  a  million  dollars  out  of  it.  You  get 
me  a  hundred  thousand,  and  I'm  satisfied." 

Purcell  saw  that  the  caller's  story  was  told,  and 
wanted,  now,  to  get  rid  of  him.  "  You'll  hear  from  me 
just  as  soon  as  I  look  this  up  a  bit,"  he  said,  assuringly. 
"  I'll  let  you  know  how  it's  going.  Of  course,  it  will 
take  some  time.  ...  If  it  comes  through,  you'll  get 
your  money." 

"  Well  —  that's  what  I  want  —  the  money,"  said  the 
negro ;  "  and  no  telling  anybody  that  I  told  you,"  he 
added  earnestly. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Purcell.  "  You'll  hear  from 
me.  I've  got  to  look  after  the  newspaper  now."  He 
stood  up  —  feeling  that  the  caller  would  linger  in- 


64  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

definitely  unless  he  received  the  strongest  hint  to  go. 

The  negro  took  the  hint,  rising,  hat  in  hand.  "  I'll 
expect  to  hear  from  you,"  he  said. 

"  You'll  hear  from  me,"  Purcell  assured  him  again. 
"  Good  night."  He  opened  the  door. 

With  a  return  to  his  first  civility  the  negro  replied, 
"  Good  night,  sir,"  and  went  out  and,  hat  in  hand, 
crossing  the  local  room  toward  the  hall  and  the  elevator 

—  his   figure  somewhat  stooped  with  age  and  shrunk 
from  its  former  stalwart  proportions. 

Purcell  then  shut  the  door  and  returned  to  his  desk 

—  possessed  by  amazement.     A  moment  after  he  had 
seated  himself  there  was  a  flash  in  which  he  felt  like  one 
waking  from  a  dream,  and  glanced  incredulously  at  the 
vacant  chair  as  though  doubting  that  it  had  really  held 
a  dusky  occupant  two  minutes  before.     Then,  abruptly 
the  whole  story  seemed  absurd  —  the  mere  maundering 
of  a  crack-brained  old  man,  who  very  likely  was  a  dis- 
charged servant  or  yard  man  of  Dinsmore's. 

But  his  methodical  habits  helped  him.  Long  ago  he 
had  learned  shorthand,  as  a  help  to  the  journalistic 
career  which  he  proposed  for  himself.  He  had  never 
been  very  expert  at  it  and  of  late  years  had  used  it 
only  for  making  notes  for  his  personal  use.  He  took 
some  sheets  of  blank  paper  now  and  noted  down  a 
summary  of  Pomeroy's  recital,  while  it  was  fresh  in  his 
mind  —  copying  names  of  towns  and  persons  from  the 
pad. 

As  he  did  that  the  grip  of  the  story  came  back.  He 
thought  of  Alfred  Dinsmore  —  many  times  a  millionaire 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  65 

—  the  big  house  up  at  Highlands  —  the  family's  social 
position.  .  .  .  Presently,  he  touched  a  button  on  his 
desk  and  when  an  office  boy  appeared  at  the  door,  said 
"  Bring  me  last  Sunday's  Tribune." 

When  the  bulky  edition  was  laid  on  his  desk  he 
turned  the  pages  rapidly  until  he  found  what  he  wanted, 
and  upon  that  his  eyes  rested  a  long  moment.  It  was 
a  half-length  portrait  of  a  young  woman  that  took  up 
two-thirds  of  the  page.  Only  a  notable  young  woman 
could  claim  that  much  valuable  Sunday-edition  space. 
From  the  printed  page  she  looked  up  at  him  with  serene, 
composed  assurance.  The  portrait  might  have  been 
labeled  "  Beauty  and  Pride."  But  in  fact  the  legend 
at  the  side  said,  "  Miss  Louise  Dinsmore." 

He  recalled  the  gossip  which  his  society  editor  had 
imparted  to  him  —  namely,  that  Miss  Dinsmore  was 
said  to  be  engaged  to  Lowell  Winthrop  and  formal  an- 
nouncement of  it  might  be  expected  soon ;  also,  that 
some  time  before  this  she  was  supposed  to  have  been 
particularly  interested  in  Mr.  Edward  Proctor.  As 
the  society  editor  reckoned  values,  being  engaged  to 
Lowell  Winthrop  was  much  the  same  as  being  engaged 
to  the  crown  prince,  and  as  Purcell  looked  down  at  the 
portrait,  Dinsmore's  position  in  the  local  world  bulked 
large  in  his  mind. 

What  a  mark  to  aim  at ! 


CHAPTER  III 

WHATEVER  faults  Charles  Purcell  had,  lack  of 
industry  was  not  one  of  them.     He  diligently 
discharged  his  duties  as  managing  editor  of  the  Leader, 
never  quitting  the  newspaper  office  before  half  past  two 
in  the  morning. 

But  this  night  he  could  not  work.  The  tempest  in 
his  brain  forbade  it.  He  turned  the  paper  over  to 
the  night  editor  and  shut  himself  in  his  narrow  office. 
For  one  thing  he  resorted  to  the  "  graveyard  "  — 
possibly  so  called  because  it  contains  material  from 
which  an  obituary  notice  of  any  prominent  citizen  can 
be  quickly  constructed.  The  office  boy  brought  him  a 
large,  strong  manilla  envelope  at  the  top  of  which  was 
written  in  a  bold  hand,  "  Dinsmore,  Alfred."  It  con- 
tained such  printed  mention  of  Mr.  Dinsmore  as  the 
keeper  of  the  graveyard  had  judged  might  be  useful. 
Purcell  emptied  the  clippings  on  his  desk  and  one  among 
them  especially  arrested  his  attention. 

It  comprised  some  three  columns  of  newspaper  print 
and  had  a  comparatively  aged  look  —  the  paper 
slightly  yellowed  and  the  ink  a  bit  faded.  The  date  in 
fact  —  1892  —  showed  that  it  was  twenty  years  old 
and  there  was  a  rather  dauby  two-column  cut  of  Dins- 
more  in  it.  Purcell  at  once  noted,  with  satisfaction, 
that  Dinsmore  had  worn  a  beard  even  twenty  years 
before.  The  top  headline  said,  "  The  New  Corn 

66 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  67 

King  " ;  and  the  sub-head  ran,  "  Alfred  Dinsmore,  the 
nervy  young  trader  from  St.  Joe,  Missouri,  whose 
Napoleonic  operations  in  corn  ended  with  an  Auster- 
litz  last  week." 

The  text  told  of  Dinsmore's  speculations  in  corn  the 
past  year  —  in  a  style  half  humorous  and  half 
melodramatic  flamboyance.  His  "  nerve "  was  what 
the  writer  constantly  admired  —  and  the  "  cool  mil- 
lion "  which  the  operations  were  said  to  have  produced. 
Purcell  knew  well  enough  that  gossip  always  magni- 
fied the  profits  and  the  "  cool  million  "  might  be  dis- 
counted fifty  per  cent.  But  what  particularly  in- 
terested him  was  the  biographical  details. 

First,  Dinsmore  came  from  St.  Joseph,  Missouri  — 
had  been  born  there.  Second,  he  was  thirty  two  years 
old  in  1892;  so  he  would  have  been  twenty  one  when 
the  cashier  of  the  First  National  Bank  of  Billingtown, 
Nebraska,  was  shot  —  if  Pomeroy's  story  was  true  as 
to  that.  Third,  his  father  had  been  engaged  in  the 
grain  trade  at  St.  Joseph.  Those  points  tallied  with 
Pomeroy's  narrative.  There  was  a  sense  in  which 
this  reckless  speculation  in  corn  tallied,  for  Pomeroy 
had  said  the  young  man  was  a  gambler. 

No  other  clipping  was  particularly  helpful,  although 
several  mentioned  that  Dinsmore  came  from  St.  Joseph, 
Missouri  —  from  an  "  old  and  distinguished  family  " 
there  some  of  them  said;  but  Purcell  was  aware  that 
most  families  are  old  and  distinguished  when  a  member 
of  them  makes  a  great  deal  of  money.  The  clippings 
shed  no  light  on  Dinsmore's  transition  from  nervy 


68  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

speculator  in  corn  to  chief  owner  of  the  Dinsmore  Com- 
pany, but  that  was  immaterial.  Later  ones  mentioned 
his  wife  and  daughter,  his  gift  of  two  hundred  thousand 
to  the  maternity  hospital,  a  hundred  thousand  to  the 
boys'  outdoor  school  and  like  matters  —  glimpses  of 
a  rich,  most  respectable,  liberal-minded,  leading  citizen 
with  a  socially  distinguished  wife  and  daughter. 

Millions !  There  was  no  doubt  about  that.  Millions ! 
If  Pomeroy's  story  was  true,  what  a  fish  had  been 
hooked!  That  was  what  burned  in  the  managing 
editor's  hungry  mind,  making  routine  work  impos- 
sible. 

But  the  size  of  the  fish  daunted  him.  With  all  his 
hunger  for  money,  the  idea  of  attacking  Alfred  Dins- 
more  single-handed  appalled  him.  Besides,  there  was 
the  matter  of  verifying  the  story,  which  he  could  not 
very  well  do  alone.  As  the  affair  took  shape  in  his 
thoughts,  he  saw  that  he  must  have  help.  That  was 
the  way  it  stood  in  his  tumultuous  mind  as  he  finally 
went  home  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Naturally 
he  slept  ill,  and  at  half  past  nine  the  next  morning 
telephoned  his  old  friend  Lawrence  McMurtry,  attorney 
at  law. 

McMurtry's  offices  were  on  Washington  Street  — 
the  usual  quarters  of  a  fairly  busy  and  prosperous 
practitioner  —  and  a  little  after  ten  Purcell  was 
seated  at  the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  private  office, 
opposite  the  lawyer. 

McMurtry  was  a  stocky,  deep-chested,  square- 
shouldered  person.  His  chin  and  jaw  were  over- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  69 

developed  —  a  size  or  so  too  large  for  the  upper  part 
of  his  face,  although  that  upper  part  was  by  no 
means  meagre, —  and  they  were  dark  blue  from  the 
dense  roots  of  a  smoothly  shaven  beard.  He  wore  his 
thick,  wavy  hair  in  a  way  to  remind  one  of  hair-restorer 
advertisements  —  brushed  up  on  both  sides  of  his  head 
as  though  the  object  were  to  display  as  much  hair  as 
possible.  His  clothes  were  well  made  and  well-fitting 
and  that  morning  he  was  wearing  a  bright  plaid  four- 
in-hand  tie  and  turn  down  collar.  His  eyes  were  small, 
shifty  and  twinkling  and  he  seemed  usually  just  at  the 
beginning  of  a  smile  in  which  there  was  little  humour. 
He  looked  a  tight,  sleek,  prowling  sort  of  animal  that 
had  just  visited  a  barber  shop  and  a  haberdashery. 
His  devious  law  practice,  eagerly  pursued,  had 
brought  him  much  dispraise,  but  not  much  fortune. 
Like  an  overzealous  hunter  he  frightened  off  more  game 
than  he  bagged. 

Eagerly,  yet  with  care,  referring  to  his  shorthand 
notes,  Purcell  retold  the  negro's  story  —  and  all  the 
time  his  cavernous  eyes,  glowing  out  of  a  bony  and 
colourless  face,  were  fixed  upon  the  lawyer  with  a  kind 
of  hungry  questioning.  Sometimes  he  wetted  his  lips 
with  his  tongue,  and  sometimes  shaved  them  with  a 
crooked  forefinger.  McMurtry  listened  intently,  his 
eyes  twinkling,  the  beginning  of  a  smile  fixing  itself  on 
his  swarthy  face.  When  Purcell  finished,  he  gave  his 
professional  judgment  promptly: 

"  It  sounds  promising."  Then,  with  a  quick 
challenge,  "You  haven't  told  Tully?" 


70  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Not  a  word,"  Purcell  replied.  "  Of  course,  if  it's 
true  it's  too  good  to  tell  him." 

"  Sure !  "  McMurtry  answered,  with  an  approving 
nod.  "  If  there's  anything  in  it  it's  worth  a  million." 
His  attitude  was  entirely  unemotional  —  strictly  pro- 
fessional. 

"  Of  course,"  Purcell  remarked,  with  a  little  failing 
of  the  nerves,  "  the  story  may  be  all  a  pipe  dream  — 
or  maybe  it  happened  and  he's  mistaken  in  the  man." 

"  Well,  let's  go  over  it  now,"  McMurtry  replied, 
professionally.  "  Dinsmore  did  live  in  St.  Joe  and  at 
that  time  he'd  have  been  about  twenty-one.  Plenty 
of  respectable  citizens  were  sowing  wild  oats  at  twenty- 
one  —  and  a  lot  later  than  that.  He  might  have  got 
into  trouble  at  home  and  wandered  out  there  in  Kansas 
and  been  playing  poker  over  a  drygoods  store.  Noth- 
ing improbable  about  that.  Unless  a  man's  a  crook 
he  don't  palm  cards  at  twenty-one,  but  there  are  crooks 
and  crooks  —  some  of  'em  bank  directors  and  deacons 
in  the  church.  Nothing  to  balk  at  in  that.  Going  in 
for  the  bank  robbery,  too  —  that  might  happen  under 
the  circumstances.  Then  the  shooting  —  a  young 
chuckle-head,  all  keyed  up  and  on  edge ;  he  sees  a  figure 
in  white  at  his  elbow  and  blazes  away  in  a  panic.  That 
might  happen." 

"  The  old  coon's  story  certainly  sounded  straight," 
said  Purcell,  gathering  confidence  from  his  friend's  sum- 
mary. 

"  As  to  whether  a  bank  cashier  was  killed  out  there 
in  Nebraska  under  about  those  circumstances  in  — 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  71 

when  was  it  —  1881  ?  —  I  can  find  out  in  half  an  hour," 
the  lawyer  continued.  "  I  haven't  any  doubt  that's  so. 
The  negro  would  have  been  plumb  nutty  to  tell  you  the 
story  if  that  part  wasn't  so.  I'm  banking  on  that's 
being  so.  Easy  enough  to  find  out,  too,  whether  any- 
body's been  convicted  for  it.  If  that  part  of  it's  so, 
then  we  come  down  to  one  thing." 

His  face  hardened  and  he  looked  intently  at  Purcell 
as  though  they  had  come  to  a  crucial  point. 

"  If  Dinsmore  is  regularly  paying  this  man  black- 
mail, as  the  man  says,  then  the  man's  got  something  on 
him.  If  Dinsmore's  paying  him  blackmail,  two  to  one 
the  negro's  story  is  true.  Men  don't  pay  blackmail 
for  fun." 

"  There's  only  one  doubtful  thing,  as  I  see  it,"  said 
Purcell  with  like  intentness,  and  shaving  his  lips  with 
a  bent  finger.  "  It  might  be  that  this  coon  is  a  dis- 
charged servant  who's  got  something  else  on  Dinsmore 
that  Dinsmore's  paying  him  blackmail  for." 

"  Well,  it  might  be,"  McMurtry  admitted,  after  con- 
sidering. "It  might  be ;  but  it  don't  look  very  reason- 
able. If  the  story  wasn't  true,  why  would  the  man 
have  come  to  you?  He'd  know  he  couldn't  get  any- 
thing out  of  it  unless  the  story  was  true."  He  con- 
sidered again  and  repeated,  with  a  tight  little  nod,  "  It 
looks  sort  of  promising  to  me." 

Purcell  swallowed. 

"  It's  true,"  the  lawyer  reflected  aloud  after  a  mo- 
ment, "  that  Alfred  Dinsmore  is  a  big  man  —  a  lot  of 
money,  a  lot  of  influence  and  all  that.  We've  got  to 


72 

be  sure  of  our  ground  and  handle  it  carefully.  But  it 
looks  promising  to  me."  And  he  added,  with  his  un- 
humourous  beginning  of  a  smile,  "  Good  enough  that 
I'm  willing  to  spend  some  time  and  money  on  it." 

"  There  are  those  two  witnesses  out  in  Nebraska  — 
Sykes  and  Dr.  Dill,"  Purcell  suggested. 

"  Of  course,"  said  McMurtry.  "  They've  got  to  be 
looked  up.  It's  all  got  to  be  looked  up.  We  must  be 
sure  of  our  ground."  He  .considered  further  and  a 
slight  frown  formed  on  his  swarthy  face.  He  gave  the 
result  of  his  consideration  with  some  reluctance : 

"  We've  got  to  take  Jake  Morden  into  it.  We'll  need 
him.  Of  course,"  he  added,  "  Jake's  in  it  already  in 
a  way.  He's  got  a  servant  bribed  up  there,  and  some- 
body or  other  watching  young  Proctor." 

As  Purcell  knew,  Jacob  Morden,  proprietor  of  Mor- 
den's  Detective  Agency,  had  already  been  engaged  in 
that  matter  of  setting  spies  on  Alfred  Dinsmore  and 
the  Dinsmore  household.  By  methods  of  his  own  — 
the  details  of  which  Purcell  had  not  cared  to  inquire 
into  —  he  had  got  one  of  the  servants  in  his  pay.  And 
he  was  having  a  watch  kept  on  Mr.  Edward  Proctor, 
with  special  reference  to  that  young  man's  contacts 
with  Miss  Louise  Dinsmore  who  was  said  to  be  en- 
gaged to  Lowell  Winthrop.  It  was  as  dirty  a  business 
as  business  could  well  be  —  particularly  as  regards 
Miss  Dinsmore  and  Mr.  Edward  Proctor.  But  since 
the  object  had  been  to  "  get  something  "  on  Dinsmore 
that  would  cause  him  to  drop  the  libel  suit,  Lawyer 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  73 

McMurtry  and  Detective  Morden  had  gone  about  it 
in  a  quite  impersonal  professional  manner. 

"  Jake  Morden  owes  a  good  deal  to  me,"  the  lawyer 
ruminated  aloud.  "  I  saved  his  bacon  for  him  once." 

Purcell  supposed  he  referred  to  the  episode," or  string 
of  episodes,  which  had  resulted  in  Jacob  Morden's  dis- 
missal from  the  city  police  force,  when  there  had  been 
talk  of  prosecuting  him  on  several  criminal  charges. 
The  gossip  in  newspaper  offices  had  been  that  his  bacon 
stood  in  great  need  of  saving  at  that  particular  time. 

"  Jake's  a  good  man,  too,"  the  lawyer  ruminated  on, 
frowning ;  "  a  first  class  detective.  There  are  two 
troubles  with  him.  He's  an  awful  hog.  If  he  comes 
into  this  he'll  want  a  full  share.  And  he's  a  reckless, 
headstrong  devil.  You've  got  to  hold  him  in  all  the 
time.  If  he  starts  after  a  man,  his  idea  is  just  to  run 
up  and  hit  him  on  the  head  first  thing.  You've  got 
to  hold  him  in.  ...  But  we'll  need  him,"  he  con- 
cluded. Then  he  grinned  broadly  and  uttered  a 
thought  which  had  been  comfortingly  in  the  managing 
editor's  mind  when  he  decided  to  go  to  his  friend 
McMurtry  —  namely :  "  If  this  story's  true,  there'll 
be  plenty  to  divide.  We  needn't  grudge  Jake  a  share. 
We'll  just  charge  it  up  to  Dinsmore." 

Purcel  had  thought  the  same  thing  about  McMurtry's 
share.  "  There'll  be  plenty  to  divide,"  he  repeated. 
But  his  timorous  phase  asserted  itself  and  he  observed, 
"  Of  course  that  happened  a  long  time  ago  —  over 
thirty  years.  An  error  of  youth,  you  know, —  atoned 
for  by  thirty  years  of  honourable  living  and  all  that. 


74 

The  story  might  be  true  and  yet  Dinsmore  might  face 
it  out  rather  than  come  across." 

But  McMurtry  shook  his  head  decisively.  "  No, 
sir !  Never !  There's  no  statute  of  limitations  in  a  case 
of  murder.  He  might  —  possibly  —  get  by  if  it  was 
nothing  but  robbing  a  bank,  although  robbing  a  bank 
is  raw  enough.  That  alone  would  put  a  fearful  dent 
in  Alfred  Dinsmore,  Esquire,  even  if  it  did  happen 
thirty  years  ago.  It  would  put  a  fearful  dent  in  the 
Dinsmore  family,  too.  It's  a  very  vulgar  crime.  This 
bank  cashier,  no  doubt,  was  a  good,  respected  citizen  — 
probably  married,  with  some  young  children.  He  was 
murdered  on  his  own  premises,  shot  down  like  a  dog. 
No,  sir !  Forty  Alfred  Dinsmores  couldn't  get  by  with 
that.  His  millions  and  his  swell  house  and  all  that 
would  make  it  all  the  worse.  Here  he  is  all  these  years 
rolling  in  luxury  with  that  crime  on  his  hands.  I'd 
give  a  bond  to  get  any  average  jury  to  send  him  up  for 
twenty  years.  They'd  feel  it  was  Providence  overtak- 
ing the  guilty  at  last.  And  public  opinion  would  send 
him  up  for  life.  You  can't  scrub  that  sort  of  a  blot 
off  the  'scutcheon.  His  family  might  as  well  emi- 
grate." 

Purcell  recalled  the  portrait  he  had  looked  at  the 
night  before.  How  she  had  held  up  her  head!  With 
what  calm  assurance  she  had  looked  out  of  the  news- 
paper page  at  him! 

"  I  told  you  about  the  rumour  that  his  daughter's 
engagement  to  Lowell  Winthrop  is  going  to  be  an- 
nounced soon  with  a  flourish  of  trumpets." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  75 

The  lawyer  recalled  it  with  his  twinkling  little  smile. 
Winthrop  was  a  mighty  name  among  society  editors. 
"  Nice  wedding  present  for  'em,"  he  observed,  and 
laughed.  Immediately  he  became  serious  and  added, 
"  If  this  story's  true,  Dinsmore  will  come  across  by 
wholesale.  He's  got  to." 

They  enjoyed  in  silence  a  moment  of  golden  con- 
templation. Then  McMurtry  spoke,  good-naturedly: 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  we've  already  got  a  start. 
The  servant  that  Jake  has  attached  to  his  pay 
roll  up  there  is  reporting  right  along  and  he's  got 
somebody  or  other  keeping  tab  on  young  Proctor." 
He  smiled,  adding,  "  We  might  get  something  on  the 
young  lady  herself,  you  know.  You  can't  ever  have 
too  many  strings  to  play  on.  It's  a  good  thing  we've 
got  a  start."  Then  he  frowned  a  bit,  rubbed  his  over- 
developed chin,  and  concluded,  "  I  might  as  well  get 
Jake  at  work  on  this  bigger  end  of  it  right  away." 

"  When  shall  we  have  a  talk  with  him  ?  "  Purcell 
asked,  with  an  innocent  air.  But  the  question  wasn't 
as  innocent  as  he  looked.  McMurtry  had  said,  "  / 
might  as  well."  And  Purcell  had  said,  "  When  shall 
we"  There  was  a  great  difference  between  the  singular 
and  the  plural  pronoun. 

There  was  one  thing  that  Purcell,  with  his  suspicious 
disposition,  feared  almost  as  much  as  he  feared  Alfred 
Dinsmore  —  namely,  that  his  masterful  friend  here 
would  take  the  affair  into  his  own  hands  so  that  finally 
the  managing  editor  would  have  to  rely  wholly  on  his 
good  faith  for  a  fair  division  of  the  spoils.  In  his 


76  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

heart  Purcell  had  no  great  trust  in  his  friend's  good 
faith.  Next  to  being  afraid  that  he  would  be  caught, 
he  was  afraid  that  he  would  be  cheated  out  of  his 
share  of  the  booty.  He  proposed  to  keep  in  the  closest 
possible  touch  with  developments. 

McMurtry  instantly  understood  the  significance  of 
the  plural  pronoun ;  and  he  said  good-naturedly,  "  We 
may  as  well  talk  it  over  this  evening.  I'll  telephone 
Jake  and  then  let  you  know." 

There  was  then,  on  Harrison  Street,  an  establishment 
known  as  the  Four  Aces  Cafe.  The  first  story  was 
occupied  by  a  long  bar,  at  one  side,  and  a  grill  with 
many  small  tables  on  a  floor  sprinkled  with  sawdust. 
The  large  electrical  sign  over  the  main  entrance  was 
in  the  similitude  of  four  aces  of  the  different  suits 
held  in  a  hand.  And  there  was  a  side  entrance  which 
gave  to  a  flight  of  narrow  stairs  carpeted  in  violent 
red.  Up  stairs  there  was  a  series  of  private  dining 
rooms.  In  one  of  those  rooms  Purcell,  McMurtry  and 
Jacob  Morden  dined  that  evening. 

The  detective  seemed  to  be  made  mostly  out  of  hard- 
wood knots.  In  contrast  to  carefully  tailored,  elabor- 
ately barbered  McMurtry,  he  dressed  in  slovenly 
fashion,  and  his  coarse,  dark-reddish  hair  thrust  out 
unkemptly  above  his  square  forehead.  He  had  a 
nubbin  nose,  a  wide  'mouth  and  a  deep  cleft  in  his  chin, 
which  needed  shaving.  Habitually  there  was  something 
morose  and  truculent  in  his  expression,  like  a  savage 
dog  that  is  ready  to  bite  on  the  least  provocation.  The 
meal  being  ended,  Purcell  took  the  shorthand  notes  out 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  77 

of  his  pocket  and  in  low  tones,  with  his  wavering  eyes 
on  the  detective,  repeated  the  story  in  every  detail. 

Morden  listened  to  it  with  his  habitual  glower.  He 
asked  some  questions  and  there  was  some  discussion 
among  the  three.  Then  the  detective's  jaw  squared 
belligerently. 

"  All  right,"  he  said ;  "  I'll  start  for  Nebraska  my- 
self day  after  tomorrow."  He  grinned  with  an  omi- 
nous satisfaction,  lifted  his  cup  and  said,  "  Here's 
luck!" 

There  was  no  liquor  on  the  table.  The  toast  was 
drunk  in  coffee. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DINSMORE'S  big  stone  house  stood  near  the  steep 
bank  of  the  lake  shore  — 'white  and  opulent,  in- 
viting sunshine.  On  the  lake  side  there  was  a  breadth 
of  velvet  lawn  and  elaborate  stone  work  with  broad, 
curving  stairs  leading  down  to  the  narrow  beach.  On 
the  other  side  there  was  a  formal  sunken  garden  with 
a  roadway  between  it  and  the  house,  then  a  carefully 
cultivated  wood,  while  a  thicket  of  shrubbery  screened 
the  premises  from  Sheridan  Road.  The  grounds  com- 
prised a  dozen  acres,  with  the  mark  of  lavish  expendi- 
ture everywhere. 

A  big  touring  car,  shining  in  every  detail,  rolled 
smoothly  up  to  the  main  door.  A  blond  and  curly 
chauffeur,  shaven  and  trig  as  the  machine  itself,  sprang 
out,  opened  the  tonneau  door  and  gathered  up  a  rich 
fur  robe  which  he  folded  on  his  arm  and  then  stood 
erect,  like  a  soldier  at  attention,  looking  toward  the 
house  with  pleasurable  expectancy.  A  man  servant 
within  opened  the  door  and  held  it  so,  his  shaven  face 
also  wearing  a  look  of  pleasant  expectation. 

A  tall  young  woman,  passing  outward  through  the 
door,  smiled  at  him  —  a  smile  somewhat  vague,  yet 
apparently  meeting  his  expectations  for  he  looked 
happy.  The  young  woman  was  wearing  a  close-fitting 
out-of-doors  spring  costume,  greyish  in  tone,  and  a 

small  snug  hat  on  which  a  bit  of  crimson  relieved  the 

78 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  79 

grey,  jewel-like.  Her  attention  was  on  the  button  of  a 
glove  as  she  crossed  the  red  tiles  to  the  roadway,  moving 
lithely.  The  chauffeur's  expectancy  heightened  as  she 
approached;  he  held  his  shoulders  even  more  squarely 
and  began  to  smile. 

The  button  being  arranged,  the  young  woman  raised 
her  blue  eyes.  Immediately  a  little  summer  lightning 
darted  in  them ;  a  small,  vertical  line  furrowed  her 
smooth  brow  and  the  colour  heightened  a  bit  in  her 
cheeks.  She  addressed  the  chauffeur,  her  low  voice 
sharpened : 

"  But  I  said  the  small  electric.  " 

So  caught  in  anti-climax,  the  unfortunate  chauffeur 
stammered,  "  The  maid  said  the  car  ...  I  thought 
.  .  .  She  must  have  misunderstood.  I'll  get  it  in  a 
minute." 

"  Please,"  said  Miss  Dinsmore  —  not  with  forgive- 
ness, but  with  dignity. 

The  chauffeur  tumbled  the  costly  fur  robe  back  into 
the  car,  sprang  in  himself  and,  as  though  the  shiny 
machine  were  at  fault,  whisked  it  swiftly  out  of 
majesty's  offended  sight. 

The  heightened  colour  remained  in  Miss  Dinsmore's 
cheeks  and  the  little  line  in  her  forehead;  she  gently 
bit  a  corner  of  her  nether  lip.  Fairly  within  the 
promised  minute  a  small  electric,  also  shiny  at 
every  point,  came  swiftly  along  the  road  and  stopped 
before  her.  The  guilty  chauffeur  sprang  out  of  it 
with  an  embroidered  woolen  robe  upon  his  arm.  Miss 
Dinsmore  climbed  in  and  suffered  him  to  arrange  the 


80 

robe  around  her.  When  he  finished  and  drew  back, 
cap  in  hand,  she  murmured  "  Thank  you,"  without 
looking  at  him.  Having  a  touring  car  brought  up  when 
one  wished  an  electric  could  not  be  forgiven  in  a 
minute. 

The  chauffeur  closed  the  door  and  Miss  Dinsmore 
drove  away  alone. 

If  she  had  looked  back  very  attentively  she  might 
have  noticed  that  the  filmy  curtains  at  the  fourth  win- 
dow from  the  south  end  of  the  house,  in  the  second 
story,  were  slightly  apart.  That  was  one  of  the  win- 
dows in  her  sitting  room  and  her  maid,  on  her  knees 
at  the  parted  curtains,  was  watching  her  departure. 

The  maid,  Jenny  Dupee,  was  slight  and  dark,  with 
lustreless  black  hair.  Her  long  thin  face,  with  a  reced- 
ing chin,  seemed  someway  to  belong  under  a  high 
powdered  coiffure  or  above  a  broad  starched  ruff.  The 
little  veins  at  her  temples  suggested  neuralgia.  She 
was  thirty-five  years  old  and  except  that  careful  art 
concealed  them,  some  grey  threads  would  have  appeared 
in  her  dark  hair.  She  was  always  watching  anxiously 
for  the  appearance  of  more  grey  threads.  The  crow's 
feet  at  the  corner  of  her  almond-shaped  eyes  made  her 
heart  sink  and  she  always  wore  a  high-necked  bodice 
to  hide  the  scrawniness  of  her  throat.  No  fading 
beauty  observed  the  encroaching  signs  of  age  with  more 
anxious  jealousy.  But  Jenny  was  actuated  by  no 
romantic  motive.  She  knew  well  enough  that  em- 
ployers preferred  young,  fresh-looking,  vigorous  maids  ; 
grey  hair  and  crow's  feet  meant  smaller  wages,  less 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  81 

chance  of  getting  a  good  job.  Upon  entering  the  Dins- 
more  household  three  years  before,  she  had  given  her 
age  as  twenty  five. 

A  fortnight  before  this  day  the  most  startling  ex- 
perience of  Jenny's  life  had  happened.  A  little  be- 
fore that  a  strange  woman  had  formed  her  acquaint- 
ance —  a  coarse,  persuasive,  masterful  woman  who 
gave  her  name  as  Martha  Woods.  In  Jenny's  slim, 
nervous  hands  this  woman  had  placed  seven  ten-dollar 
bills  —  the  first  week's  wage,  honourably  paid  in  ad- 
vance. Thereafter  seventy  dollars  was  to  be  paid  each 
week  by  postal  money  order.  And  this  seventy  dollars 
a  week  —  the  coarse,  masterful  woman  said  — was 
merely  earnest  money.  If  the  mysterious  affair  upon 
which  she  was  embarked  turned  out  satisfactorily, 
Jenny  should  receive  much  more  —  a  thousand  dollars 
at  least.  Meanwhile  Jenny  ran  not  the  least  risk. 

Like  the  managing  editor  of  the  Leader,  Jenny  Dupee 
mightily  wanted  the  money  —  an'd  was  afraid.  Doubt- 
less time  had  been  when  she  looked  to  matrimony ;  but 
for  the  last  two  or  three  years  life  had  become  for  her 
mostly  just  a  heart-breaking  race  between  her  tortoise- 
footed  savings  bank  account  and  the  grey  hairs  and 
wrinkles.  The  savings  account  grew  with  painful 
slowness ;  the  grey  hairs  and  wrinkles  seemed  winged 
in  comparison.  With  a  great  fluttering  of  the  heart 
and  pulses,  Jenny  had  accepted  Martha  Woods'  seven 
ten-dollar  bills,  and  at  the  end  of  the  week  the  postal 
money  order  duly  arrived.  So  the  savings  account  had 
taken  on  new  life. 


82  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

It  looked  easy,  and  rather  safe.  All  she  had  to  do 
was  watch  with  all  her  might,  write  down  what  she 
saw  and  heard,  slip  the  writing  into  an  envelope,  ad- 
dress that  to  Mrs.  Martha  Woods,  Room  641,  Rosser 
Building,  Adams  Street,  Chicago,  and  drop  it  into  a 
mail  box. 

On  her  knees  at  the  window,  Jenny  watched  the  small 
electric  wind  through  the  grounds  and  disappear  behind 
the  screen  of  shrubbery  along  the  Sheridan  Road  front. 
A  moment  later  she  caught  a  glimpse  of  it  going  south. 
She  looked  at  the  gilt  clock  on  the  mantel  and  made 
a  mental  note  for  her  report :  "  At  half  past  twelve, 
drove  away  alone  in  the  small  electric,  going  south  in 
.Sheridan  Road." 

She  then  crossed  the  room,  glanced  into  the  hall,  and 
carefully  closed  that  door  again.  The  morning  mail 
had  brought  her  mistress  half  a  dozen  letters  which  now 
lay  open  on  the  carved  ebony  writing  table  where  a  fair 
and  careless  hand  had  dropped  them.  Jenny  read  them 
standing  so  she  could  turn  away  quickly  if  a  hand  were 
laid  on  the  door  knob.  They  gave  her  no  particular 
satisfaction  beyond  some  intimate  personal  gossip  — 
but  she  had  derived  that  satisfaction  from  her  mistress' 
mail  long  before  anybody  paid  her  for  it. 

In  fact,  she  was  insatiably  curious  —  a  spy  by 
nature.  When  she  finished  the  letters  it  was  almost 
one  o'clock  and  an  experience  which  excited  all  her 
curious  instincts,  as  the  smell  of  cheese  excites  a  mouse, 
lay  before  her.  Going  into  the  broad  hall  that  divided 
that  second  story  lengthwise  she  moved  down  it  with 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  83 

nervous,  noiseless  steps  until  she  came  to  a  door  on  the 
right  hand  side.  A  swift  glance  before  and  behind 
showed  that  she  had  the  hall  to  herself,  so  she  applied 
her  ear  to  the  crack  in  the  door.  No  sound  saluted  it. 
Her  hand  closed  firmly  on  the  knob;  it  turned  with- 
out noise,  the  door  swung  inward  an  inch  and  gave  her 
peering  eye  a  view  of  half  the  room. 

Like  all  the  rooms  in  that  house,  it  was  spacious  and 
handsomely  furnished.  Two  generous  windows  over- 
looked the  lake.  A  small  table  stood  by  one  of  them 
and  at  the  table  sidewise  to  her  view  sat  a  fat  old  man 
with  a  bright-coloured  silk  fez  on  his  bald  head.  His 
full  beard  was  snow  white  and  neatly  trimmed.  He 
was  wearing  an  embroidered  and  quilted  dressing  gown. 
Some  playing  cards  lay  in  neat  rows  on  the  table  in 
front  of  him.  From  the  deck  at  the  left  he  took  a  card 
and,  after  scanning  the  rows,  placed  it.  To  any  one 
acquainted  with  games  at  cards  it  was  obvious  that  he 
was  playing  a  well-known  kind  of  solitaire  that  is  often 
used  for  gambling  purposes.  At  the  top  of  the  desk 
lay  a  little  stack  of  five-dollar  bills.  A  similar,  but 
thinner,  -stack  lay  at  the  right  hand  end. 

The  fat  old  man  took  another  card  from  the  deck, 
contemplated  it,  carefully  scanned  his  rows,  stroked 
his  white  beard  a  moment  with  the  free  hand,  and 
placed  the  card.  Then  he  counted  the  cards  in  the 
top  row,  and  transferred  a  number  of  bills  from  one 
pile  to  the  other  and  gave  a  little  sigh.  His  round 
face,  overladen  with  flesh,  wore  -a  rueful  expression. 
Evidently  luck  was  going  against  him  that  day.  As 


84  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

he  gathered  up  the  cards  to  shuffle  them  afresh,  Jenny 
silently  pulled  the  dtoor  shut,  then  knocked  loudly  upon 
it  and  waited  a  minute. 

"  Come  in,"  a  throaty  voice  called,  after  a  moment's 
interval.  When  she  stepped  briskly  in,  the  cards  were 
neatly  stacked  on  a  corner  of  the  table,  but  the  money 
had  disappeared  and  the  old  gentleman  looked  at  her 
somewhat  like  an  urchin  who  has  been  at  the  forbidden 
jam  pot  and  is  trying  to  look  innocent  while  pain- 
fully aware  of  the  stained  hands  behind  its  back. 

"  Good  morning,  Cousin  Elliot,"  said  Jenny  cheer- 
fully ;  "  this  is  a  pleasant  day." 

The  man  looked  out  of  the  window  and  replied,  "  Why, 
yes:  so  it  is,"  as  though  he  had  just  noticed  it. 

"  Nearly  time  for  luncheon,  you  know,"  she  reminded 
him,  smiling. 

He  gravely  drew  a  fine  watch  from  his  vest  pocket, 
consulted  it  and  replied,  "  You're  right ;  so  it  is,"  and 
heaved  himself  up  out  of  the  cushioned  chair.  When  he 
stood  up  one  saw  that  he  enjoyed  the  services  of  an 
excellent  tailor.  His  paunch,  that  might  have  sagged 
baglike,  was  expertly  trussed  up  in  rotund  shapeliness. 
But  he  was  fat  all  over;  his  red  chops  overflowed  his 
collar;  his  white  hands  were  puffy.  When  he  took  off 
his  embroidered  dressing  gown,  his  shirt  sleeves  ap- 
peared of  the  finest  linen  and  fresh  from  the  laundry. 

"  Shall  I  get  your  coat  for  you?  "  Jenny  asked 
cheerfully. 

"  If  you  please,"  he  replied  gravely. 

She  went  to  a  big  closet,  hung  full  of  clothing,  took 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  85 

down  the  coat  and  vest  matching  his  trousers  and  held 
them  for  him.  He  put  them  on  carefully,  buttoned  the 
vest,  settled  the  coat  into  shape  and  stepped  in  front  of 
a  tall  mirror  wherein  he  critically  surveyed  his  reflec- 
tion, noting  that  the  crease  in  his  trousers  fell  just 
right  and  no  wrinkle  appeared  in  the  coat.  While  he 
surveyed  himself  with  satisfaction  Jenny  visited  the 
•closet  again  and  came  back  with  a  brown  skull  cap,  that 
being  the  colour  of  his  clothes.  He  gravely  took  off  the 
bright-coloured  fez,  put  the  brown  head  piece  in  its 
place  and  observed  the  effect  in  the  mirror.  Mean- 
while Jenny  was  hanging  up  his  dressing  gown.  With 
a  final  look  at  himself  in  the  mirror  and  a  glance  around 
the  room  to  see  that  all  was  in  order,  he  walked  soberly 
to  the  door  and  went  down  stairs  to  join  the  family  at 
luncheon.  When  he  had  gone,  Jenny  slipped  over  to 
the  small  table  at  which  he  had  been  sitting  and  gently 
tried  the  upper  right  hand  drawer.  It  was  locked  as 
usual.  She  knew  he  kept  his  gambling  money  in  that ; 
and  two  big  diamond  rings  which  he  sometimes  put  on 
and  admired  when  he  was  alone. 

Not  that  she  entertained  predatory  intentions  toward 
the  money  and  the  diamonds.  She  just  wanted  to  look 
at  them  again  as  ponderable  items  in  the  mystery. 

When  she  entered  the  Dinsmore  household  three 
years  before,  this  fat,  bald,  snow-bearded  old  man  was 
a  member  of  it  —  and  naturally  as  exciting  to  her 
curious  instincts  as  the  smell  of  game  to  a  hunting 
puppy.  The  inquiries  which  she  pursued  with  dis- 
creet diligence  among  servants  of  longer  tenure  dis- 


86  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

closed  that  he  had  been  there  many  years  —  as  far  back 
as  the  knowledge  of  any  of  those  whom  Jenny  sounded 
reached.  The  other  servants  had  come  to  accept  him 
as  one  of  the  facts  of  the  household,  like  the  furniture. 

"  A  relative  of  my  grandmother's,"  her  young  mis- 
tress had  said  once  in  reply  to  a  rather  pointed  observa- 
tion on  Jenny's  part.  The  young  mistress  said  it  with 
indulgent  indifference,  as  though  she,  too,  simply  ac- 
cepted him  as  one  of  the  facts  of  the  household.  He 
was  called  "  Cousin  Elliot  "  by  other  members  of  the. 
household,  or  "  Mr.  Elliot  "  by  the  servants.  Jenny 
had  never  heard  any  other  names  applied  to  him. 

Of  course,  all  the  servants  were  aware  that  Cousin 
Elliot  was  sadly  afflicted  in  his  mind.  "  A  fine  old  nut," 
was  the  cook's  judgment  on  him  —  for  Cousin  Elliot 
was  quite  popular  below  stairs,  giving  no  trouble  and 
often,  furtively,  slipping  out  pieces  of  silver  and  dol- 
lar bills  for  any  special  service 

Partly  because  of  that  amiable  habit  of  his  —  but 
even  more  because  of  her  insatiable  curiosity  —  Jenny 
had  adroitly  insinuated  herself  upon  Cousin  Elliot. 
Formerly  a  man  servant  had  called  him  to  luncheon; 
but  for  a  year  now  Jenny  had  quietly  usurped  that 
duty,  and  attended  to  him  in  such  other  ways  as  she 
could.  Cousin  Elliot  plainly  liked  her,  and  about  once 
a  fortnight  slipped  two  dollar  bills  slyly  into  her  thin 
hand.  The  bills  were  convenient,  but  it  was  really  for 
the  satisfaction  of  her  restless  imagination  that  Jenny 
waited  upon  him.  That  waiting  upon  him  became  a 
tacit  sort  of  custom,  no  one  objecting. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  87 

Cousin  Elliot's  affliction  was  of  the  most  harmless 
kind.  Habitually  he  sat  all  morning  long  playing 
solitaire  —  and  betting  with  himself,  as  Jenny  dis- 
covered. Usually  he  submitted  docilely  to  the  restric- 
tions which  Mrs.  Dinsmore  senior  put  upon  his  diet  and 
dutifully  took  the  prescribed  exercise  which  consisted 
of  walking  about  the  grounds  for  half  an  hour  twice  a 
day.  The  automobile  rides  which  were  prescribed  for 
him  he  appeared  to  enjoy. 

Aside  from  playing  cards  his  chief  interest  lay  in  his 
personal  appearance.  Spying  Jenny  had  often  seen 
him  sit  many  minutes  at  a  time  moving  his  fingers  and 
observing  the  sparkle  of  his  fine  rings.  For  many 
minutes  he  would  stand  before  the  big  mirror  surveying 
himself,  touching  up  his  tie,  settling  his  coat.  All  this 
he  did  with  the  grave,  innocent  satisfaction  of  a  little 
girl  over  a  trinket  or  a  new  frock.  His  mind  seemed 
just  to  have  gone  back  to  the  age  of  four  —  but  carry- 
ing with  it  certain  interests  such  as  cards  and  dress 
which  he  had  acquired  in  maturity.  And  he  never  wore 
his  glittering  rings  down  stairs  —  his  simple  mind 
evidently  retaining  the  fact  that  they  were  not  proper 
form  for  a  gentleman.  He  was  indulged  in  every  harm- 
less way.  His  wardrobe  was  much  more  extensive  than 
that  of  the  master  of  the  house.  His  diamonds  cost 
some  thousands  of  dollars.  He  was  always  supplied 
with  money.  There  was  something  odd  about  the 
money,  however.  Before  Jenny  entered  the  room,  he 
always  hid  that  which  he  used  in  his  queer  gambling, 
like  a  boy  hiding  his  contraband  pipe.  She  surmised 


88  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

that  gambling  was  nominally  forbidden ;  in  his  decrepit 
mind  the  idea  of  an  inhibition  seemed  to  attach  to  it. 

In  such  ways  as  that  Cousin  Elliot  displayed  con- 
siderable mental  competence.  One  might  have  talked 
with  him  for  several  minutes  on  a  simple  topic  and 
not  suspected  that  his  mind  was  afflicted.  He  would 
pass  the  time  of  day,  make  observations  about  the 
weather,  the  shrubbery  or  the  flowers  with  grave 
coherence.  His  seemed  not  so  much  a  disordered  mind 
as  one  undeveloped  —  the  mind  of  four  years  old. 
There  appeared  to  be  no  particular  restraint  upon  his 
movements.  In  fact  he  seemed  to  have  no  particular 
inclination  to  move.  He  was  made,  or  induced,  to  take 
some  needful  mild  exercise  and  from  the  servants  who 
were  familiar  with  the  dining  room  Jenny  learned  that 
an  inclination  to  overeat  was  mildly  restrained. 

It  was  Mrs.  Dinsmore,  senior,  mother  of  the  master 
of  the  house  who  —  as  presumably  the  nearest  in  blood 
—  seemed  to  be  his  special  guardian ;  but  Jenny  per- 
ceived that  Cousin  Elliot  stood  in  considerable  awe  of 
the  master  of  the  house. 

She  was  continually  wondering  about  him  —  even 
now,  when  she  had  the  more  absorbing  wonder  whether 
she  was  going  to  get  that  thousand  dollars,  at  least, 
which  Martha  Woods  had  spoken  of.  But  as  to  what 
this  spying  on  her  mistress  meant,  she  didn't  wonder 
much  because  she  thought  she  knew.  Her  conviction 
was  that  Mr.  Lowell  Winthrop  inspired  it  mainly  for 
the  purpose  of  finding  out  what  was  going  on  between 
her  mistress  and  Mr.  Edward  Proctor.  Martha  Woods 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  89 

hadn't  said  so,  but  that  was  Jenny's  conviction,  for  she 
knew  all  the  gossip  that  circulated  below  stairs.  The 
small  electric  had  turned  south  in  Sheridan  Road.  Els- 
moor  and  Mr.  Edward  Proctor  lay  in  that  direction. 

Leaving  Jenny's  field  of  vision,  the  small  electric  held 
to  that  southward  course.  Its  driver's  forehead  was 
still  slightly  wrinkled  and  there  was  a  play  of  summer 
lightning  in  the  depths  of  her  blue  eyes.  She  was,  in 
fact,  agitated,  uncertain,  profoundly  dissatisfied  with 
herself  and  her  situation  and  all  bursting  with  an  aim- 
less rebellion  at  everything  in  general.  Otherwise  she 
wouldn't  have  been  angry  with  the  poor  chauffeur  for 
bringing  the  wrong  vehicle  to  the  door. 

Spring,  usually  late  in  that  region,  had  come  on  fast 
although  there  was  still  a  keen  edge  to  the  air.  Buds 
and  blooms,  the  blue  above,  the  twinkling  lake  over  to 
the  east  and  the  air  itself  proclaimed  that.  But  there 
was  none  of  spring's  bland  geniality  in  Louise  Dins- 
more's  disturbed  mind. 

Driving  south  in  Sheridan  Road  she  passed  through 
two  suburbs  and  presently  crossed  the  boundary  of 
Elsmoor.  The  residences  along  the  drive  were  not  quite 
so  costly  as  one  went  south  and  less  spaciously  set.  She 
soon  turned  west  toward  the  shops  and  offices  where  the 
business  of  Elsmoor  was  conducted.  They  were  mainly 
on  one  smart  street  with  fine  asphalt  pavement,  neat 
stone  gutters  and  ornamental  lamp  posts.  The 
smartest  building  on  the  street  —  of  buff  pressed  brick 
and  green  tile,  two  stories  high  and  occupying  a  corner 


90  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

—  bore  the  sign  "  Bank  of  Elsmoor,"  on  brass  tablets 
at  either  side  of  the  front  door. 

Louise  drove  around  to  the  side  of  this  building  and 
wheeled  up  to  the  curb.  The  little  clock  on  the  dash 
showed  ten  minutes  to  one.  She  was  early  and  might 
have  waited  outside  there  in  her  car.  But  she  chose 
not  to  —  scorning  the  idea  of  concealment  which  that 
might  have  suggested.  She  alighted,  therefore,  and 
entered  the  side  door  of  the  bank  —  the  line  of  per- 
plexity smoothed  out  of  her  forehead  and  altogether, 
once  more,  the  young  lady  of  the  portrait,  holding  her 
lithe  body  erect,  her  chin  up,  her  blue  eyes  looking 
serenely  forth. 

Into  whatever  commercial  establishment  she  had 
stepped  thereabouts  somebody  would  have  been  pretty 
sure  to  recognize  her  and  hasten  to  meet  her  wants  — 
less  from  snobbishness  than  from  the  sound  commercial 
motive  that  the  Dinsmores  had  a  great  many  wants  and 
ready  cash  to  satisfy  them  with.  The  stout  and  bald 
cashier  of  the  bank,  engaged  with  a  customer  at  his  desk 
behind  the  mahogany  railing  at  the  rear  of  the  bank- 
ing room,  saw  her  as  she  stepped  in  and  met  her  eye 
as  she  calmly  surveyed  the  establishment.  Whereupon 
he  paused  in  his  occupation  with  the  customer  and  looked 
at  her  inquiringly  —  as  though  he  would  have  come  out 
from  behind  the  railing  if  she  signified  a  wish  to  speak 
with  him.  But  her  glance  moved  composedly  beyond 
him,  and  she  seated  herself  on  the  mahogany  bench  near 
the  wall. 

She  was  quite  sure  the  cashier  recognized  her,  and 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  91 

was  glad  of  it.  She  perversely  hoped  he  would  keep 
watch  of  what  she  did.  There  was  nothing  clandestine 
about  it ;  she  was  doing  it  openly,  in  the  light  of  day  — 
almost,  figuratively  speaking,  with  a  brass  band. 
Others  observed  her  sitting  there  —  with  a  little 
emotional  stir  which  was  by  way  of  tribute  to  her  beauty 
and  style,  or  to  her  name,  too,  if  they  happened  to 
know  who  she  was.  And  this  observation  pleased  her 
rebellious  mood. 

Being  Saturday  and  a  half  holiday  the  smart  little 
suburban  bank  was  busy  at  that  hour.  Several  de- 
positors stood  in  line  at  the  wicket  of  the  receiving 
teller,  and  there  was  a  longer  queue  at  the  paying  teller's 
wicket  which  was  nearly  opposite  where  she  sat.  Behind 
that  wicket  a  dark-haired  athletic  young  man,  in  his 
shirt  sleeves,  stood  at  bat,  so  to  speak.  A  check  was 
slipped  through  the  wicket.  He  glanced  at  it,  glanced 
up  at  the  person  who  presented  it,  and  swiftly  counted 
out  the  amount.  He  had  been  doing  that  since  nine 
o'clock.  A  procession  of  faces  framed  themselves,  one 
by  one,  in  the  brass-barred  square  in  front  of  him  — 
popping  into  focus  there,  tarrying  a  moment  while  he 
counted  out  the  money  and  disappearing  to  give  place 
to  the  next.  For  the  last  hour  he'd  had  little  time  to 
look  beyond  the  wicket.  But  the  hour  of  closing  was  at 
hand ;  the  queue  was  shortening.  He  did  glance  beyond 
the  wicket  and  saw  Louise  sitting  on  the  bench  watching 
him.  A  rather  startled  look  appeared  on  his  face  and  he 
glanced  quickly  at  the  big  clock  on  the  wall  over  the 
cashier's  desk,  as  though  with  a  panicky  notion  that  he 


92  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

had  been  keeping  her  waiting.  The  clock  showed  only 
three  minutes  of  one,  however,  and  he  looked  back  at 
her  radiating  a  smile.  She  smiled  also,  and  he  went  oh 
with  his  work. 

A  little  after  one  he  hurried  out  from  behind  the 
counter,  with  his  coat  on,  hat  in  hand,  radiant.  She 
arose  and  gave  him  her  hand.  They  went  out  of  the 
side  door  and  got  into  her  car. 

"  Busy,  today  ?  "  she  said,  as  she  drove  away. 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Saturday  is  always  busy,"  he  replied. 

"  And  how  are  you  —  really  ?  " 

"  Never  better,"  he  replied  cheerfully. 

"  It  doesn't  confine  you  too  much?  You  keep  fit?  " 
She  looked  him  over  as  she  asked  it. 

"  I  walk  back  and  forth  —  a  mile  each  way  —  and 
manage  to  get  some  tennis.  I'm  fit  as  a  fiddle.  Wait- 
ing for  the  swimming  now,  you  know."  He  affirmed  it 
cheerfully,  smiling ;  and  his  appearance  bore  it  out.  He 
was  barely  two  inches  taller  than  herself,  but  stoutly 
built  and  muscular.  Long  before  this  banking  experi- 
ence he  had  distinguished  himself  at  football. 

"And  they're  really  nice  people  —  in  the  bank?" 
she  asked. 

"  Salt  of  the  earth,"  he  replied  promptly. 

"  I  know  old  Mr.  Gregory  is,"  she  said. 

"  He's  a  prince !  "  the  young  man  affirmed. 

They  talked  on  in  this  way,  all  on  the  surface,  any- 
thing to  fill  in  the  time  —  making  empty  conversation. 
The  shiny  electric,  meanwhile,  had  returned  to  Sheridan 
Road  and  was  wheeling  smoothly  south.  Almost  im- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  93 

mediately  after  it  entered  that  thoroughfare,  Louise  ex- 
perienced a  moment  of  remorse  and  embarrassment,  be- 
cause they  were  rolling  past  a  spacious,  half-timbered, 
English-looking  house  that  stood  empty  and  eyeless, 
with  boarded  up  windows  on  an  unfinished,  belittered 
lawn  —  which  was  further  disfigured  by  a  big  sign  that 
read: 

"  This  Fine  Residence  For  Sale  at  a  Bargain.  In- 
quire of  Traders'  Trust  Company,  Receiver." 

Her  impatience  was  with  herself.  Blockhead  that 
she  was,  she  had  meant  to  turn  into  the  Road  farther 
south  so  as  to  avoid  passing  that  eyeless  mansion! 
For  Thomas  Proctor,  father  of  the  young  man  at  her 
side,  had  built  that  residence  and  was  just  getting  it 
finished  when  stark  ruin  overtook  him.  She  had  meant 
not  to  drive  by  it,  and  then  forgotten  —  blockhead  that 
she  was !  She  kept  up  the  empty  talk  more  industri- 
ously than  ever. 

Somewhat  farther  south  the  houses  became  still 
smaller  and  closer  together,  with  a  prudent  saving  of 
valuable  ground;  and  presently  they  crossed  a  modest 
street.  Three  blocks  up  that  street  —  to  the  west  and 
so  fairly  outside  the  pale  of  the  society  editors  —  stood 
a  story  and  a  half  frame  cottage  with  a  lawn  just  big 
enough  to  support  two  stunted  oaks.  There  Edwin 
Proctor  and  his  mother  now  lived  on  his  wage  as  paying 
teller  in  the  Bank  of  Elsmoor.  One  could  hardly  map 
out  a  very  cheerful  excursion  for  him  in  this  region. 

Still  farther  south  she  turned  off  the  drive  toward 
the  lake  and  drew  up  before  a  staid,  battlemented 


94.  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

wooden  house  which  some  misguided  citizen  had  built 
for  a  residence  long  before.  Now  a  post  at  the  curb 
carried  a  swinging  wooden  sign  which  announced  —  in 
the  old  English  script  which  is  usually  affected  for  that 
purpose  —  that  the  premises  were  The  Rosemary  Tea 
Room.  The  first  time  she  had  taken  him  away  from 
the  bank,  in  this  manner,  they  had  gone  to  this  tea  room 
for  luncheon  —  for  no  reason  except  that  she  happened 
to  remember  the  place  at  the  moment.  This  was  the 
fourth  time  and  they  still  went  to  the  same  tea  room  — 
which  was  as  good  as  any  other  place. 

Luncheon  was  served  them  by  a  young  woman  in 
white  cap  and  apron  at  a  little  table  at  the  end  of  the 
glass-enclosed  and  steam-heated  veranda  on  the  side 
overlooking  the  lake.  The  usual  tubbed!  evergreens 
half  screened  their  table.  It  was  snug  there;  and  by 
degrees  the  conversation  subtly  took  on  the  warmth  and 
colour  of  their  flesh  and  blood.  Nothing  was  said  that 
would  have  meant  much  if  coldly  reproduced  in  print; 
but  presently  they  were  really  talking  to  each  other  and 
not  just  making  conversation. 

Proctor  lit  a  cigarette,  leaned  back,  brushed  a  blunt, 
strong  hand  over  his  thick  hair,  looked  off  at  the 
twinkling  blue  sea  —  for  it  was  spring  outside  —  then 
looked  over  at  her,  smiled  and  said  simply : 

"  Awfully  good  of  you,  Lou."  By  insensible  degrees 
they  had  got  around  to  that  intimate  footing. 

He  had  a  short  upper  lip  and  when  he  smiled  that  way 
looked  quite  boyish. 

"  It's  been  rough  on  you,  Ned,"  she  replied  instantly ; 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  95 

"  and  horribly  unjust."  She  seemed  to  struggle  with 
that  idea  a  moment,  and  flung  out  helplessly,  "  What 
can  any  one  do  ?  " 

"  Not  a  thing  in  the  world,"  he  answered  at  once 
with  perfect  candour.  "  Not  a  thing  in  the  world. 
.  .  .  It's  done,  you  see.  There's  no  undoing  it."  He 
passed  his  hand  over  his  hair  again  and  looked  away. 
"  It's  been  hard  on  mother.  She  feels  it  —  being 
dropped  and  cut  and  all  that.  ...  Of  course  some 
pups  went  out  of  their  way  to  do  it.  They  wanted 
credit  for  heaving  the  first  stone.  That  makes  me  sore 
still.  .  .  .  But  —  well,  I've  simply  got  over  being  sore, 
as  a  general  thing.  What's  the  use?  It's  done  and 
that's  the  end  of  it.  If  a  fellow  on  the  team  breaks 
his  leg,  why  he's  out  of  the  game  and  that's  all  there  is 
to  it.  We  broke  our  leg.  .  .  ." 

He  made  some  slight,  nervous  stirrings  in  his  chair, 
passed  his  hand  over  his  hair,  compressed  his  lips,  look- 
ing off  at  the  lake.  After  which  he  looked  around  at 
her  and  simply  opened  his  heart: 

"  I  wasn't  any  good,  Lou,  except  at  things  I  could 
do  with  my  arms  and  legs.  I  was  first  rate  at  foot- 
ball and  tennis  and  swimming  and  making  a  row. 
Otherwise,  I  was  no  good  at  all.  I  was  a  bitter  pill  for 
my  father.  That's  one  thing  I've  got  to  think  about 
now.  I  know  I  disappointed  him  —  getting  thrown  out 
of  college  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  ...  As  I  look  back  at 
it  now,  there  wasn't  anything  so  desperately  wrong  — 
just  a  fool  colt  kicking  a  hole  in  the  fence  because  his 
legs  were  full  of  kick  and  he  didn't  know  any  better. 


96  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

It  wasn't  that  I  ever  did  anything  very  wrong,  but  I 
certainly  didn't  do  anything  very  good.  ...  Of  course, 
my  father  was  ambitious  for  me.  The  wrong  was  the 
trouble  I  made  him.  I  disappointed  him." 

The  man  who  thus  surveyed  his  youthful  indiscre- 
tions as  though  from  a  remote  distance  and  with  the 
soberly  judicial  eye  of  age  was,  in  fact,  twenty-six. 

"  I  wasn't  any  good,  and  I  suppose  it  didn't  look  as 
though  I  ever  would  be." 

He  had  turned  his  eyes  to  the  lake  again,  and  com- 
pressed his  lips.  "  Then  something  happened  to  me. 
I  got  ambitious  myself.  I  proposed  to  settle  down  and 
try  to  be  grown-up.  So  I  went  into  the  bank." 

His  auditor's  heart  throbbed  up  in  her  throat.  She 
wondered  if  she  knew  what  it  was  that  happened  to  him 
and  made  him  ambitious ;  and  she  rather  thought  she 
did. 

"  I  went  into  the  bank,"  he  repeated ;  "  and  then  fa- 
ther's trouble  came  along.  You  see,  because  I  hadn't 
been  any  good  —  because  I'd  been  a  bitter  pill  to  him  — 
that  influenced  the  way  I  thought  about  it  when  the 
trouble  came  along.  ...  It  made  me  feel  as  though  I 
had  a  lot  to  make  up  to  him  that  I  never  could  make  up 
—  the  way  things  stood." 

She  would  have  liked  much  to  say  something,  but  all 
she  could  find  was  a  murmured,  foolish,  "  It's  been 
awfully  rough  — " 

He  contemplated  the  half-smoked  cigarette  a  mo- 
ment, stirred  again  in  his  chair,  and  suppressed  a  sigh. 

"  He  told  me  all  about  it,  Lou  —  finally  —  from  start 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  97 

to  finish.  .  .  .  You  see,  my  grandfather  started  making 
threshing  machines  out  there  at  Turner  Junction  when 
that  was  away  outside  of  Chicago.  He  made  quite  a 
business  of  it.  ...  Seems  kind  of  strange  that  grand- 
father died  only  fifteen  years  ago.  I  remember  him  as 
well  as  I  remember  anybody ;  yet  he  seems  to  belong  to 
another  age.  He  lived  to  be  eighty. 

"  Well,  father  took  hold.  Of  course,  conditions 
were  changing  all  the  time.  Pretty  soon  the  little 
threshing  machine  plant  wasn't  doing  very  well.  There 
was  too  much  competition.  Then  —  probably  you've 
heard  —  father  combined  those  three  concerns.  Well, 
that  was  a  success ;  it  made  a  lot  of  money.  Not  a 
lot  of  money  the  way  they  count  it  in  Wall  Street,  but 
a  lot  more  than  grandfather  had  ever  thought  of.  But 
conditions  were  changing  all  the  time.  The  people 
that  had  gone  into  the  combination  with  father  were 
anxious  to  branch  out  and  make  more  money.  Of 
course  he  was  anxious  enough,  too.  These  tractor 
patents  came  along.  He  thought  there  was  a  great 
future  for  that.  The  model  machines  worked  well. 
He  went  into  it  on  a  big  scale.  Father  was  always  a 
very  sanguine,  pushing  kind  of  man.  But  with  tractors 
he  went  into  something,  you  see,  that  he  didn't  really 
understand.  He  had  to  rely  on  other  people  for  the 
mechanics  of  the  thing.  It  took  a  good  deal  more 
money  than  he  had  counted  on  —  getting  in  the  new 
machinery,  building  the  new  plant,  launching  it  all. 
Then  Tomlins  died  and  that  threw  it  practically  all  on 
father's  shoulders.  They  were  turning  out  the  tractors 


98  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

and  selling  them  and  getting  pretty  good  reports  from 
them.  Everybody  was  going  in  for  making  tractors 
by  that  time  —  two  or  three  concerns,  especially,  that 
were  much  bigger  than  father's,  with  much  more  capital 
and  so  on.  He  believed  his  machine  was  the  best  and 
he  didn't  want  these  other  people  to  capture  the  market 
ahead  of  him.  So  he  doubled  his  manufacturing  capac- 
ity. The  company  already  owed  too  much  money,  for 
it  had  taken  a  lot  more  than  he  counted  on  to  get  the 
tractors  started.  Doubling  the  plant,  of  course,  gave 
it  that  much  bigger  load  to  carry.  Then  there  was  a 
lot  of  material  to  buy  and  so  on.  The  company  had 
very  good  credit.  Banks  almost  anywhere  would  buy 
its  paper.  There  came  a  time  in  that  season's  man- 
ufacturing campaign  when  the  credit  wouldn't  stretch 
any  further.  Some  big  banks  were  beginning  to  kick 
over  the  company's  condition.  You  see,  making  and 
selling  a  farm  tractor  is  a  long  process.  From  the 
time  you  begin  laying  in  the  raw  steel  until  your  trac- 
tor is  sold  and  paid  for  is  at  least  a  year,  and  longer  if 
they're  sold  on.  time.  If  his  credit  cracked,  he'd  be 
caught  half  way  over  with  a  lot  of  stuff  in  process  of 
manufacture  that  would  be  no  good  until  it  was  finished 
and  marketed.  He  thought  he  must  find  some  way  of 
carrying  it  through  until  the  machines  were  finished  and 
sold.  Then  he'd  be  able  to  pay  everything  off.  If 
Tomlins  had  lived  he  would  have  had  somebody  to  turn 
to.  But,  as  he  looked  at  it,  there  was  nobody.  ... 

"  Of  course  he  was  too  self-confident  —  too  sanguine 
—  reckless,  no  doubt.     Except  for  Tomlins  he'd  car- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  99 

ried  it  alone.  I  guess  father  was  inclined  to  carry  it 
alone.  Probably  he  hadn't  asked  for  advice  or  paid 
much  attention  to  advice  when  it  was  offered.  A  con- 
fident, sanguine  man  is  apt  to  be  that  way,  especially 
if  he's  already  made  a  good  success,  and  father  had 
been  very  successful  up  till  then.  Maybe  his  pride 
wouldn't  let  him  acknowledge  what  deep  water  he  was 
in.  At  any  rate  he  began  to  put  out  company  notes, 
selling  them  to  country  banks  through  commercial 
paper  brokers,  without  letting  the  notes  show  on  the 
company's  books.  The  balance  sheet  that  the  com- 
pany showed  to  the  banks  wasn't  true,  you  see.  Fa- 
ther looked  at  it  as  a  stop-gap  —  just  something  to) 
get  by  to  the  end  of  the  season  with.  .  .  . 

"  Well,  they'd  made  a  change  in  the  machines.  The 
experts  that  he  relied  on  advised  it.  The  model  worked 
fine.  But  in  fact  it  was  a  great  mistake.  When  that 
year's  machines  got  out  into  the  fields  and  at  work 
under  actual  farm  conditions,  they  began  to  go  wrong. 
Complaints  came  from  all  over.  Dealers  were  can- 
celling orders  —  sending  machines  back.  Of  course, 
that  was  a  frightful  facer.  It  meant  that  those  ma- 
chines would  have  to  be  mostly  made  over.  You  see, 
that  put  it  all  off  another  year.  The  company  had  to 
be  carried  through  that  much  longer,  with  a  heavier 
load,  or  fail.  But  father  couldn't  let  it  fail.  His 
balance  sheet  wasn't  true.  These  notes  that  he  had 
concealed  were  outstanding.  A  failure  would  disclose 
them.  It  meant  disgrace  for  him,  maybe  prosecu- 
tion. 


100  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  He'd  had  so  little  doubt  about  it  that  he  had  gone 
ahead  with  the  new  house  at  Elsmoor.  Of  course, 
mother  was  greatly  pleased  with  the  house.  Father 
didn't  propose  to  hand  a  lemon  to  his  family  —  failure, 
disgrace,  maybe  prosecution.  I  believed  him  when  he 
told  me  it  was  as  much  for  his  family  as  for  himself 
that  he  fought.  I  believe  that  now.  He  set  his  teeth 
and  proposed  to  carry  the  thing  through  another  year. 
Then  if  the  machines  were  right  he  could  swing  clear. 
Of  course,  it  was  a  desperate  chance;  but  he  was  a 
desperate  man.  .  .  . 

"  I  suppose,  when  a  man  is  in  that  position,  his  judg- 
ment isn't  very  good  any  more.  He  is  in  a  fearful  hole, 
you  see  —  desperate  —  just  plunges  ahead,  grabbing  at 
everything  that  offers.  The  worse  he  got  in,  the  more 
desperate  he  was.  He  said  to  me  that  he'd  been  a  great 
criminal  —  stuck  at  nothing.  He  also  said  he  would 
have  swung  it  through  if  it  hadn't  been  for  that  auto- 
mobile accident.  I  don't  know  whether  he's  right  about 
that  or  not.  Very  likely  he's  wrong  and  it  would  have 
gone  to  smash  anyway.  But  he  thinks  he  would  have 
swung  it  through  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  accident.  .  .  . 

"  Probably  you  remember  —  his  car  skidded  and  col- 
lided with  a  street  car  as  he  was  coming  down  town.  I 
heard  of  it  at  the  bank  and  rushed  up  to  the  hospital. 
He  didn't  realize  then  how  badly  he  was  hurt.  He 
thought  he'd  be  down  town  next  day,  or  even  that  after- 
noon. Of  course,  I  wasn't  thinking  of  anything  but 
his  injuries.  He  gave  me  a  memorandum  out  of  his 
pocket  —  something  he  had  meant  to  attend  to  himself 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  101 

as  soon  as  he  got  down  town.  He  told  me  to  go  back 
to  the  bank  and  make  out  those  three  drafts  and  get  'em 
in  the  mail  as  soon  as  I  could.  He'd  had  me  made  an 
assistant  cashier,  you  know,  to  jolly  me  along.  Well, 
I  wasn't  thinking  of  anything  in  the  world  but  just 
doing  what  he  told  me.  That  was  what  I  was  indicted 
for,  you  know.  Probably  I  could  be  sent  up  for  it; 
but  under  the  same  circumstances  and  not  knowing  any 
more  about  it  than  I  knew  then,  Fd  do  the  same  thing 
over  again  a  thousand  times  —  just  do  what  he  told 
me.  Of  course,  he  didn't  get  out  of  the  hospital  that 
day,  or  for  two  weeks,  and  by  that  time  it  had  all  gone 
to  smash.  .  .  . 

"  I  know  my  father  went  fearfully  wrong,  Lou.  He 
did  rotten  things  —  especially  the  Industrial  Bank. 
That  was  his  great  regret.  Grandfather  was  one  of 
the  founders  of  it,  you  know.  Father  inherited  an  in- 
terest in  it.  Being  a  sanguine,  pushing  kind  of  man 
he'd  come  to  be  the  chief  factor  in  it.  Old  Tupham  is 
a  nice  old  chap,  but  he  didn't  count  for  much.  Father 
outweighed  the  others.  ...  It  was  a  fearful  wrong  — 
a  great  crime  —  all  those  poor  savings  depositors  los- 
ing their  money.  I  don't  for  a  minute  try  to  excuse  it. 
But  as  he  told  it  all  to  me,  I  could  understand  it  —  a 
man  cornered  and  desperate,  you  see  —  grabbing  at 
anything  to  get  out  and  all  the  time  getting  in  deeper. 
.  .  .  It  was  a  fearful  wrong;  but  there's  no  helping  it 
just  now.  It's  been  done  and  can't  be  undone  now. 
All  I  can  see  just  now  is  my  father  —  down  there  in 
that  stone  hole. 


102  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

*'  My  father  was  awfully  good  to  me.  Certainly  he 
was  awfully  fond  of  me.  And  I'm  awfully  fond  of  him, 
Lou.  All  I  can  think  of  just  now  is  him,  down  there 
in  prison.  All  I  want  now  is  to  get  him  out.  .  .  .  You 
can  understand  it  —  down  under  a  ton  of  brick,  you 
know,  that's  crushing  the  life  out  of  him.  All  you  can 
think  of  is  how  to  get  him  out.  I  think  if  it  was  your 
father,  whatever  he'd  done,  you'd  feel  the  same  way." 

"Yes,  Ned,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  such  as  she  had 
never  used  to  him  before  —  the  tone  a  woman  uses  when 
she  stoops  to  caress. 

He  felt  the  tone,  but  kept  his  eyes  doggedly  to  the 
twinkling  lake  and  went  on : 

"  Of  course,  it's  no  use  now.  The  public  is  too  bitter 
against  him.  But  in  a  year  or  two  —  after  this  feel- 
ing has  died  down  —  I  hope  to  do  something.  That's 
what  I  want  most  in  the  world,  now,  Lou  —  I  want  to 
get  my  father  out.  .  .  .  And  then  I  want  to  pay  back 
the  last  penny  to  those  savings  depositors.  There  are 
debts  I  don't  care  two  straws  about  —  to  people  who'll 
never  miss  the  money.  But  if  I  live  I'm  going  to  pay 
those  savings  bank  debts  if  it  takes  me  a  life  time.  .  .  . 
They  got  something  out  of  the  sound  assets  of  the  bank. 
There's  just  a  little  over  seven  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars owing  to  them.  I'm  going  to  pay  it  if  I  live. 

"  That's  what  I'm  caring  about  now.  The  rest  of  it 
—  disgrace,  the  newspaper  abuse  and  being  dropped 
and  cut  and  all  that  —  why,  I've  just  got  over  thinking 
about  it.  As  to  being  dropped  and  cut,  while  I  hate  it 
for  mother's  sake,  it's  all  over  and  done  with.  We've 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  103 

broken  a  leg  and  we're  just  out  of  the  game  and  that's 
all  there  is  to  it.  We  aren't  eligible  any  more ;  we'd 
simply  be  an  incumbrance.  Of  course,  we  haven't  a 
nickel,  you  know.  The  creditors  took  everything  but 
our  clothes  —  and  welcome,  so  far's  I'm  concerned.  I 
haven't  any  time  or  money  to  play  the  club  game,  even 
if  I  was  eligible.  .  .  . 

"  And  then  there  have  been  those  that  have  stuck, 
Lou.  I've  got  good  friends  yet.  There's  bully,  lovely 
old  Gregory,  for  example.  He's  a  regular  man,  Lou. 
He  was  one  of  those  that  got  me  off,  you  know  —  got 
the  State's  Attorney  not  to  prosecute  me  under  that 
indictment.  I  suppose  they  might  have  sent  me  over 
—  the  feeling  against  father  being  what  it  was.  The 
indictment  is  still  standing  over  me,  but  I've  no  doubt 
it  will  be  quashed  by  and  by  —  for  all  I  did  was  just 
that  day  when  father  was  hurt  —  issuing  the  drafts  as 
he  told  me  to.  And,  you  know,  it  took  some  nerve  — 
the  feeling  being  what  it  was  —  for  Gregory  to  put  me 
into  the  bank  up  there  at  Elsmoor.  A  couple  of  the 
newspapers  made  a  nasty  little  fling  about  it.  But  old 
George  Smith  Gregory,  with  his  blessed  old  hook  nose 
and  rust}7  little  bow  tie,  said  he'd  give  me  a  fair  show; 
and  he  has.  I've  got  some  good  friends,  Lou,  that  stuck 
like  burrs." 

He  brought  his  eyes  around  to  her  face  then  and 
smiled,  "  And  you're  one  of  them.  You've  been  a  brick, 
old  girl.  It's  mighty  fine  of  you." 

His  face  was  not  perfectly  clear  before  her  eyes ;  the 
image  blurred  a  trifle;  and  she  said  in  humble  candour, 


104  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  No  I  haven't.     I've  been  rotten  to  you.     I've  been 
rotten  to  everybody." 

He  smiled  at  her,  boy-like,  and  answered,  "  This  isn't 
rotten." 

It  was  her  turn  to  look  off  at  the  lake  then ;  and  she 
knew  she  was  saying  a  reckless  thing,  but  her  mood 
pushed  her  on  to  say  it  just  the  same  —  not  to  him,  but 
to  the  landscape : 

"  I  wonder  if  it's  all  worth  while  —  the  place  in  the 
front  row  that  we  chorus  girls  set  so  much  store  by, 
and  getting  our  pictures  in  the  Sunday  newspapers. 
.  .  .  It's  true,  ours  is  front  row  for  life  —  with  the 
whole  show  from  manager  down  to  scene-shifter,  always 
anxious  to  please.  .  .  .  It's  a  good  deal,  when  it's  for 
life  —  you  always  served  first  and  the  others  squabbling 
for  what's  left  after  you're  through.  .  .  .  I'm  proud 
as  a  peacock,  Ned,  and  selfish  as  a  wolf." 

He  forced  a  smile  and  replied,  "  No ;  it's  yours  by 
divine  right.  You  belong  in  the  front  row.  I  wouldn't 
see  you  anywhere  else."  She  thought  there  was  some- 
thing self-conscious  in  the  way  he  deposited  his  cigarette 
stub  in  the  saucer,  with  his  eyes  carefully  on  the  table. 
So  she  said: 

"  Perhaps  you've  heard  that  I'm  to  marry  Lowell 
Winthrop." 

He  looked  up  at  her  squarely,  openly,  and  replied 
with  perfect  steadiness,  "  Yes :  I'd  heard  it.  He's  a 
fine,  able  man.  I  wish  you  all  the  happiness  in  the 
world." 

And  that  brought  them  to  a  stone  wall. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  105 

"  Certainly,  I'm  hoping  to  be  happy,"  she  said,  the 
speech  sounding  silly  to  her  ears.  "  I'm  awfully  glad 
to  see  you  getting  on  at  the  bank.  You've  been  a  per- 
fect brick,  Ned.  I'm  terribly  proud  of  you."  That 
sounded  even  sillier.  She  picked  up  her  gloves. 

"  A  couple  more  weeks  of  this  and  swimming  will  be- 
gin," he  observed,  looking  at  the  lake,  as  he  arose  with 
her  and  recovered  his  hat.  "  I'm  born  again  when  I 
can  get  into  the  water." 

And  as  they  got  into  the  car  they  fell  back  into  their 
made  conversation. 

"  Shall  I  take  you  home?  "  she  asked,  as  they  neared 
the  modest  street  at  the  southern  edge  of  Elsmoor. 

"  Just  drop  me  here  at  our  street,"  he  replied. 
"  They're  fixing  the  pavement  up  by  the  house.  You 
might  not  be  able  to  get  through." 

She  thought  he  was  lying  about  the  pavement.  But 
that  was  nothing  to  the  lie  she  was  acting  —  for  if  she 
drove  up  to  his  house,  what  about  his  mother?  She 
knew,  as  he  had  said,  that  his  mother  took  her  punish- 
ment hard,  and  the  Dinsmore  family  had  been  among 
those  for  whom  the  Proctor  family  had  ceased  to  exist 
socially.  If  she  drove  Ned  up  to  the  house,  she  might 
step  out  to  say  "  How  d'  do  "  to  his  mother  in  her 
cheerf ulest,  most  gracious  manner  —  which  would  be  a 
ghastly  sort  of  performance.  Or  she  could  drop  Ned 
in  front  of  the  house  and  drive  away  without  saying 
"  How  d'  do  "  to  his  mother,  which  would  be  awkward 
too.  She  knew  Ned  had  divined  that  dilemma  and  lied 
about  the  pavement  to  get  her  out  of  it. 


106  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Not  that  there  had  ever  been  any  intimacy,  or  more 
than  the  most  incidental  sort  of  contact,  between  the 
two  families.  The  intimacy  had  all  been  between  her- 
self and  Ned.  She  had  known  all  along  that  her  father 
and  mother  did  not  approve  the  Proctors;  and  es- 
pecially did  not  approve  the  son  who  had  managed  to 
acquire  the  reputation  of  a  scapegrace.  They  viewed 
their  daughter's  friendship  for  him  with  a  chilly,  scarce- 
concealed  dissatisfaction. 

Then  came  the  ruin  and  exposure  of  Thomas  Proctor 
—  an  astounding  maze  of  deceits,  juggled  balance- 
sheets  and  spurious  paper  as  the  receivers  and  the 
press  unravelled  it.  Above  all,  it  involved  the  wreck  of 
the  Industrial  Bank  with  grievous  loss  to  its  savings 
depositors.  Press  and  public  turned  thumbs  down  to 
Thomas  Proctor;  he  was  the  arch  swindler.  The  son 
himself  was  indicted  and  was  technically  guilty,  al- 
though he  had  only  obeyed  his  father  under  specially 
exigent  circumstances  and  without  knowing  his  father's 
situation. 

That  brought  matters  to  a  crisis.  To  nobody,  prob- 
ably, was  the  kind  of  crime  that  Thomas  Proctor  had 
committed  more  detestable  than  to  Alfred  Dinsmore. 
The  lying  balance  sheets,  bogus  paper,  wrecked  bank, 
connoted  a  kind  of  malefaction  that  he  abhorred.  He 
had  never  liked  Thomas  Proctor  anyway,  sensing  some- 
thing unsound  in  him.  The  son's  scapegrace  reputa- 
tion was  no  recommendation  to  the  father  of  a  marriage- 
able daughter.  The  exposure  brought  affairs  to  a 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  107 

climax.  Alfred  Dinsmore  laid  down  the  law  that  his 
door  was  not  open  to  Edward  Proctor. 

Father  and  daughter  were  too  much  alike  —  high- 
spirited,  quick-tempered,  proud.  They  had  a  bitter 
quarrel.  In  their  alikeness,  both  of  them  struck  too 
hard.  Because  they  loved  each  other  very  much  the 
blows  hurt  all  the  worse.  Dinsmore's  law  stood ;  his  door 
was  not  open  to  young  Proctor.  But  it  spoiled  his  life ; 
he  and  his  daughter  were  not  good  friends  any  more. 

Outwardly  there  was  just  that  one  quarrel  and  then 
they  went  on  as  before,  speaking  pleasantly  to  one  an- 
other, resuming  the  superficial  habits  of  amicable  rela- 
tions. But  underneath  the  wounds  stung  and  there  was 
the  deep  sense  of  alienation.  They  were  not  good 
friends  any  more. 

Six  months  passed  and  Louise  accepted  a  proposal 
of  marriage  from  Lowell  Winthrop  —  deliberately,  with 
open  eyes.  With  Lowell  Winthrop  there  could  be  no 
question  about  a  reserved  seat  in  the  front  row;  it  was 
his  by  prescriptive  right.  He  was  honourable,  capable, 
personally  agreeable.  She  said  she  was  fond  of  Lowell. 
And  after  all,  she  did  very  much  want  the  front  row. 
She  said  her  affairs  were  fully  settled.  Naturally  her 
father  and  mother  were  much  gratified.  As  to  her  fa- 
ther she  silently  took  her  little  coals-of-fire  vengeance 
by  accepting  eligible  Lowell  Winthrop.  But  still,  in 
spite  of  the  surface  actions,  the  alienation  persisted. 
In  a  way  he  had  taken  a  whip  to  her.  It  seemed  she 
could  never  make  her  heart  forget  that. 


108  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

So  her  affairs  were  fully  settled  —  except  for  a 
perverse  imp  deep  down  in  her  mind,  or  heart.  Her 
way  through  life  was  irrevocably  marked  out ;  if  there 
was  another  path  that  she  had  once  inclined  to  it  was 
now  forever  closed.  But  there  was  poor  old  Ned  moil- 
ing away  in  that  little  bank  —  dropped,  out  of  his  clubs, 
out  of  everything,  grieving  for  his  father.  She  couldn't 
help  thinking  of  him.  Good,  foolish  old  Ned! 

So  one  Saturday  she  had  called  him  up  and  taken 
him  to  lunch  with  her.  This  Saturday  was  the  fourth 
time  that  had  happened  —  and  she  could  find  no  satis- 
faction whatever  in  her  engagement  to  Lowell  Win- 
throp.  .  .  . 

Driving  northward  this  Saturday  and  only  mechani- 
cally aware  of  the  road  she  saw  herself  in  a  situation 
as  absurd,  intolerable  and  disgraceful  as  ever  fell  to  the 
lot  of  a  respectable  young  woman;  and  all.  absolutely 
of  her  own  making.  She  had  deliberately  engaged  her- 
self to  an  honourable  man  whom  she  meant  to  marry  and 
she  was  carrying  on  what  might,  with  no  great  unchari- 
tableness,  be  called  a  reckless  flirtation  with  another  man 
whom  she  did  not  mean  to  marry  and  who,  she  rather 
thought,  was,  or  had  been,  more  or  less  in  love  with  her. 
That  was  hardly  decent  to  Lowell ;  it  was  not  decent  to 
Ned;  there  was  no  dignity  or  decency  about  it.  But 
it  was  all  her  own  handiwork.  One  of  the  furnishings 
of  that  small,  luxurious  electric  consisted  of  a  little 
mirror.  Her  blank  eyes  chanced  to  catch  the  reflection 
of  part  of  her  face  in  it  —  half  of  a  finely  modelled  chin, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  109 

curved  red  lips,  a  bit  of  straight  nose,  one  full  deep 
blue  eye  with  a  dark  arched  eyebrow,  a  forehead  and  a 
wave  of  abundant  hair  under  the  brim  of  a  smart  hat. 
Most  observers  would  have  admired  it;  but  she  viewed 
it  without  favour  and  addressed  it  aloud :  "  You  great 
big  fool !  "  But  calling  herself  names  did  not  ease  the 
burning  of  her  heart  or  the  bitter  commotion  in  her 
brain. 

Nearing  the  house,  she  turned  off  the  Road  and  drove 
on  aimlessly,  wishing  to  be  alone.  So  it  was  five  o'clock 
when  she  got  home,  and  she  meant  to  go  up  stairs  at 
once.  But  as  it  happened,  when  she  entered  the  house, 
her  mother  was  just  going  from  the  hall  into  the  living- 
room  and  turned  to  look. 

Her  mother  was  still  a  handsome  woman,  although 
time  had  considerably  amplified  her  graceful  figure  and 
a  critical  observer  might  detect  a  good  many  white 
threads  in  her  yellow  hair.  She  was  always  as  im- 
maculately groomed  as  a  prize  horse  on  parade  and  she 
gave  one  the  same  pleasant  impression  of  a  specldess, 
glossy,  beautifully  kept  being  in  perfect  condition. 
For  many  years  now  —  easily  since  grammar-school 
days  at  least  —  Louise  had  been  under  no  illusions 
about  the  range  and  strength  of  her  mother's  intellect ; 
but  she  knew  another  strength  in  her  which  lay  in  her 
gracious  heart  and  her  sweet,  warm  affections.  Only 
the  merest  brute  could  ever,  on  any  account,  have 
quarrelled  with  her  mother,  and  the  brute  would  have 
had  to  do  all  the  quarrelling.  Louise  knew  that  her 


110  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

mother  had  given  her  able  father  a  happiness  that  he 
might  have  missed  with  many  a  woman  whose  brains 
more  nearly  matched  his. 

When  Mrs.  Dinsmore  looked  around  at  her  tall, 
darker  daughter  a  certain  fact  was  gently  implicit  in 
the  look.  This  fact  was  that  when  an  unmarried  daugh- 
ter left  the  house  at  half  past  twelve,  without  an  engage- 
ment that  her  mother  knew  of,  and  returned  at  five,  an 
explanation  might  properly  be  given.  Louise  knew  that 
if  she  chose  to  ignore  that,  her  mother  would  say  noth- 
ing. But  she  didn't  choose  to  ignore  it ;  her  aimless 
rebellion  and  her  perverse  imp  wouldn't  let  her.  So, 
drawing  off  her  gloves,  she  remarked  coolly : 

"  I've  been  having  Ned  Proctor  to  lunch  with  me." 

Her  mother  looked  pained  and  murmured  simply, 
"  I'm  sorry." 

Louise  knew  it  was  mean  and  cowardly  —  this  hitting 
her  mother  behind  her  father's  back.  All  the  same  she 
•flung  out  hotly,  "  I  think  it's  rotten  —  the  way  we've 
all  turned  our  backs  on  them !  " 

"  I  should  say  we  were  just  where  we  were  before, 
but  they  have  moved,"  her  mother  suggested  —  beating 
over  the  old  ground.  "  You  know  how  your  father 
feels."  But  they  had  been  over  all  that  before.  She 
spoke  more  gravely,  even  with  some  reproach.  "  Do 
you  think  it's  quite  fair  to  Lowell  —  or  to  yourself, 
Lou?  I  don't  know  Ned  Proctor  very  well;  but  if  he 
is  worth  going  to  lunch  with,  do  you  think  it's  quite 
fair  to  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  suppose  not,"  said  Louise  desperately  and 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  111 

helplessly,  and  went  stormily  up  stairs.  "  I'm  wrong 
with  everybody,"  she  thought  —  with  her  mother  in 
mind  too  —  as  she  walked  down  the  upper  hall. 

At  twenty  minutes  past  seven  she  came  down  stairs 
dressed  for  dinner,  which  was  to  be  at  half  past ;  merely 
&  family  dinner,  and  yet  not  merely,  for  Lowell  Win- 
throp  was  there,  having  walked  down  from  the  Win- 
throp  place  a  half  mile  up  the  Road.  That  was  why 
she  had  neither  come  down  very  much  before  dinner 
time  nor  waited  until  the  exact  time.  Ten  minutes  be- 
fore the  hour  was  what  she  had  compromised  on.  Of 
course  he  sat  beside  her  at  table. 

He  was  then  thirty-three  —  nine  years  her  senior. 
Fortune  had  absolved  him  from  the  necessity  of  earning 
a  way  through  the  world,  but  those  who  knew  spoke  of 
his  legal  attainments  with  respect.  In  the  big  law 
office  of  Melford,  Farson  &  Winthrop  few  worked  more 
regularly  or  to  better  purpose.  He  was  a  man  to 
whom  men  of  affairs  looked  for  leadership  —  conserva- 
tive to  a  notable  degree,  yet  capable.  In  his  own  right 
he  had  fairly  won  recognition  and  position  among  men 
of  affairs,  when  he  could  just  as  well  have  ridden 
through  on  the  front  seat  with  his  legs  crossed  if  he 
had  chosen. 

He  was  nearly  six  feet  tall,  ruddy  with  health,  carry- 
ing considerable  more  flesh  than  his  athletic  director 
of  ten  years  ago  would  have  approved,  yet  in  excellent 
condition.  His  short  and  sandy  hair  was  neatly  parted 
and  his  close-cropped  moustache  showed  his  full  red 
lips.  He  spoke  with  sure-footed,  compact  deliberation, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

and  with  a  pronunciation  very  reminiscent  of  Oxford 
where,  in  fact,  he  had  spent  two  years.  Sitting  beside 
him  Louise  felt  again  that  he  was  front  row  for  life, 
agreeably  incarnated  in  a  well-kept,  well-clothed  body 
and  with  the  best  of  manners.  In  whatever  he  did 
there  was  somehow  the  calm  assumption  that  front  row 
belonged  to  him  by  right. 

His  taste  was  exceedingly  fastidious.  It  had  kept 
him  a  bachelor  up  to  now  in  spite  of  numberless  op- 
portunities to  change  that  state.  Coolly  smiling  and 
looking  up  at  the  young  woman  beside  him,  he  was  con- 
tent. She  shone  like  a  jewel  and  he  felt  he  had  been 
right  in  waiting  until  she  came  along.  A  man  in  his 
position  ought  to  marry ;  but  he  had  been  in  no  hurry 
to  give  up  his  comfortable  bachelorhood.  And  as  his 
cool,  honourably  calculating  eye  surveyed  the  company 
he  was  well  content.  It  was  an  eligible  family.  True, 
there  was  one  defect  which  had  caused  him  some  little 
deliberation.  It  Sat  across  the  table  from  him  between 
Mrs.  Dinsmore  senior  and  the  master  of  the  house. 
The  only  name  he  knew  for  it  was  Cousin  Elliot. 

Five  minutes  before  dinner  time,  Cousin  Elliot  had 
come  down  stairs  in  the  wordless  satisfaction  of  an  in- 
fant with  a  new  toy  over  his  fine  dinner  coat,  figured 
silk  vest  and  expanse  of  snowy  shirt  bosom.  His  fat 
pink  head  was  uncovered.  Not  for  anything  would  he 
have  worn  a  skull  cap  with  evening  dress,  for  his  af- 
flicted mind  somehow  retained  those  points  as  it  re- 
tained the  points  in  a  game  of  cards.  His  deportment 
was  as  gravely  correct  as  that  of  the  butler  himself  and 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  113 

he  made  several  observations  on  the  weather  and  the 
forwardness  of  the  foliage  that  any  sane,  vacuous  per- 
son might  have  made.  Having  made  his  few  observa- 
tions he  lasped  into  silence,  his  mind  occupied  with  his 
deportment  like  that  of  a  new  ambassador  at  his  first 
court  function.  At  table  he  sat  beside  Mrs.  Dinsmore 
senior  and  only  those  who  were  in  the  secret  would  have 
known  that  he  petitioned  for  a  second  portion  of  the 
meat  course  and  the  dessert,  which  the  old  lady  denied. 
Lowell  Winthrop  had  sat  at  table  with  Cousin  Elliot 
before.  Nevertheless  he  watched  furtively  and  with  a 
sort  of  nervousness  to  see  whether  the  afflicted  relative 
would  spill  any  food  or  drink  on  his  snowy  beard,  or 
his  snowier  shirt  front,  or  the  table  cloth;  and  he  was 
very  grateful  that  Cousin  Elliot  didn't,  for  if  Cousin 
Elliot  had  Lowell  Winthrop  would  have  winced. 

Certainly  Cousin  Elliot  was  a  defect  —  something 
that  subtly  grated  on  Lowell  Winthrop's  nerves,  as  a 
smear  on  the  wall  paper  would  have  done.  Yet  the 
best  of  families  might  be  afflicted  with  a  feeble-minded 
relative.  He  wasn't  clear  as  to  the  nature  of  the  in- 
jury which  had  reduced  Cousin  Elliot  to  this  state.  It 
had  been  merely  hinted  at  to  him,  and  he  approved  the 
good  taste  which  left  it  at  a  mere  hint.  He  approved 
also  their  honourable  candour  in  not  trying  to  conceal 
the  defect  from  him  —  as,  for  example,  in  their  having 
Cousin  Elliot  down  to  dinner  tonight  just  as  they  did 
when  they  dined  alone.  Having  taken  him  into  the 
family  they  simply  put  the  skeleton  where  he  could  see 
it  for  himself.  His  nice  sense  of  what  was  fitting  in 


114  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

such  circumstances  approved  that.  And  after  all, 
Cousin  Elliot  belonged  to  the  passing  generation. 

Another  member  of  the  family  was  absent  tonight  — 
Louise's  brother,  then  abroad  on  a  wedding  tour.  But 
Lowell  had  no  reservations  about  him.  Nobody  had. 
Good  old  Alf  bore  his  father's  name  but  his  mother's 
disposition  and  character. 

Mrs.  Dinsmore,  senior,  mother  of  the  master  of  the 
house,  was  very  acceptable  also  —  as  a  member  of  the 
passing  generation.  She  looked  even  older  than  her 
_years  —  so  frail  and  white  that  she  seemed  hardly  a 
ponderable  embodiment  of  the  spirit  which  looked  out 
of  her  clear  eyes.  She  walked  with  some  difficulty,  and 
with  the  help  of  an  ebony  stick.  It  seemed  amazing 
that  that  feeble  body  had  withstood  seventy-four  years 
of  living;  yet  there  was  vitality  and  will  in  the  spirit 
that  looked  out  of  her  .eyes.  Her  scanty  hair  was  per- 
fectly white  and  the  thin  face  beneath  it  contrasted  with 
it  in  colour  only  as  ivory  contrasts  with  marble.  She 
spoke  with  intelligence,  using  words  like  an  educated 
person  of  taste,  although  her  voice  was  cracked. 

And  there  was  Dinsmore,  his  thick  and  slightly  wavy 
hair  —  now  streaked  with  grey  —  lifting  off  his  fore- 
head with  that  sort  of  couchant  air ;  composed  as  usual 
in  a  way  that  suggested  conscious  restraint  but  with 
humour  peeping  out.  His  speech,  like  his  motions,  was 
quick  and  precisely  to  the  point,  as  though  mind  and 
body  were  made  of  keen,  easily  acting  springs,  full  of 
compact  energy. 

Before   the   dinner   was    over,   Tillson,   the   butler, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  115 

stooped  beside  his  master's  chair  and  murmured.  At 
once,  Dinsmore  asked  to  be  excused,  arose  and  left  the 
room  briskly.  .  .  . 

While  this  cosy  family  dinner  was  proceeding  Jenny 
Dupee  had  slipped  warily  down  stairs  to  the  lower  hall. 
A  parlour  lay  at  the  right.  Jenny  opened  the  door 
and  found  the  room  dark  as  she  had  expected.  Closing 
the  door  behind  her,  she  sped  across  the  dark  room, 
listened  an  instant  at  another  door,  then  opened  it, 
found  the  electric  switch  on  the  wall  and  turned  on  the 
lights.  That  room  was  the  library.  Book  cases  lined 
the  walls,  with  some  busts  and  pictures  above  them.  A 
long,  handsome  table  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  on 
a  costly  rug.  There  were  some  big,  easy  chairs,  up- 
holstered in  russet  leather  and  over  in  the  corner  a 
large  lounge,  also  upholstered  in  leather  and  covered 
with  a  spread  of  curiously  woven,  bright-hued  cloth. 
Jenny  was  perfectly  familiar  with  the  room  and  gave 
only  a  swift  glance  about  it,  then  ran  over  to  the  couch 
where  she  crouched  and,  lifting  the  fringe  of  the  cover, 
looked  underneath. 

That  morning  Martha  Woods  had  telephoned  to  her 
and  that  afternoon  she  had  gone  over  to  the  suburban 
village  street  and  met  Martha  Woods  at  the  appointed 
place.  Martha  Woods  had  told  her  that  a  man  was 
going  to  make  a  brief  call  on  Mr.  Dinsmore  at  half  past 
eight  in  the  evening.  Mr.  Dinsmore  would  receive  him 
in  the  library.  If  Jenny  could  manage  to  see  and  hear 
what  took  place  between  them  she  would  receive  two 
thousand  dollars  at  the  end  of  the  enterprise,  instead  of 


116  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

the  one  thousand  theretofore  mentioned.  Martha 
Woods  had  said  that  the  end  of  the  enterprise  was  near 
at  hand  and  the  call  would  be  brief  —  only  five  minutes 
or  so.  In  the  nature  of  things  a  thousand  dollars  for 
five  minutes  wouldn't  often  come  Jenny's  way. 

The  undertaking  presented  no  great  difficulties.  At 
half  past  eight  the  family  would  still  be  at  the  dinner 
table ;  the  servants  would  be  at  dinner  or  otherwise 
engaged.  Five  minutes  was  not  long.  So  Jenny  had 
turned  it  over  in  her  mind,  trembling,  her  nervous  eyes 
shining  with  hope  and  fear.  And  she  was  now  to  take 
the  plunge.  Satisfied  by  a  look  that  there  was  nobody 
else  under  the  couch,  Jenny  sped  back  and  turned  off  the 
lights ;  then  found  her  way  to  the  couch  in  the  dark,  lay 
down  on  the  floor  and  rolled  under  —  her  thin  breast 
labouring  for  breath  and  clenching  her  thin  hands  to 
still  the  shivering  of  her  body.  .  .  . 

Briskly  leaving  the  dinner  table,  after  Tillson  mur- 
mured to  him,  Dinsmore  followed  the  butler  to  the  li- 
brary. When  Tillson  turned  on  the  lights,  Dinsmore 
gave  a  mechanical  glance  about  and  nodded  to  the  serv- 
ant who  withdrew.  Then  Jenny,  breathlessly  peering 
through  the  fringe  of  the  couch  cover,  saw  Mr.  Dins- 
more  walk  up  to  the  big,  polished  table  in  the  centre  of 
the  room  and  stand  coolly  beside  it. 

A  moment  later  the  butler  opened  the  other  door,  in 
the  end  of  the  room,  and  admitted  an  old  negro  who 
carried  his  hat  politely  in  one  hand  and  in  the  other  a 
small  brown  bag  that  had  seen  much  wear. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  117 

"  Good  evening,  William,"  said  Dinsmore  good-na- 
turedly. 

"  Good  evening,  sir,"  the  negro  replied,  smiling  and 
so  disclosing  a  few  discoloured  teeth. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  Dinsmore  was  opening  a  drawer  in 
the  big  table.  Jenny  saw  that  he  took  from  it  a  bundle 
of  bank  notes.  The  negro  opened  his  bag  and  set  it  on 
a  corner  of  the  table.  Dinsmore  dropped  the  bank 
notes  into  it  and  snapped  it  shut. 

"  How  is  Collingwood  these  days  ?  "  Dinsmore  asked, 
pleasantly  enough,  as  he  put  the  money  in  the  bag. 

"  Same  as  usual,  sir,"  the  negro  replied,  smiling.  He 
gave  a  guttural  chuckle  and  added,  "  Able  to  attend  to 
business  every  evening  over  at  that  Christopher  Colum- 
bus Social  Club,  I  reckon." 

Dinsmore  smiled  and  the  negro,  hat  in  hand,  went  to 
the  door.  Jenny  saw,  as  he  opened  it,  that  Tillson 
was  waiting  for  him  on  the  other  side  and  at  once 
gravely  took  him  in  tow.  The  door  was  left  open,  and 
after  waiting  only  a  moment  — •  plucking  once  at  his 
beard  —  Dinsmore  left  the  room. 

When  he  returned  briskly  to  the  dinner  table,  his 
mother  had  ceased  eating  and  he  saw  that  her  frail 
figure  was  trembling  slightly.  He  smiled  at  her  with 
warm,  reassuring  affection ;  took  her  fleshless  hand 
under  the  table  and  pressed  it,  still  smiling  reassurance. 

That  detail,  of  course,  Jenny  missed.  All  the  rest 
she  reported  in  the  usual  manner  to  Martha  Woods, 
Room  641,  Rosser  Building,  Adams  Street,  Chicago. 


CHAPTER  V 

THERE  were  obvious  faults  in  Jenny  Dupee's  re- 
port. She  described  Mr.  Dinsmore's  caller  as  an 
old  "  collared "  man,  spelled  eight  without  an  "  h," 
said  she  was  "  laying  "  under  the  couch.  But  it  was 
written  with  exemplary,  painstaking  care  for  every  de- 
tail —  on  her  mistress's  fine  note-paper. 

To  McMurtry  and  Purcell,  as  they  eagerly  bent  over 
the  thin,  pearl-grey  sheets  in  the  lawyer's  office,  the  vir- 
tues of  the  report  —  in  that  matter  of  putting  down 
all  the  details  —  infinitely  outweighed  its  defects. 

"  That  woman's  a  corker !  "  said  the  lawyer,  in  hearty 
encomium. 

With  a  kind  of  subdued  zest,  like  that  of  a  well- 
trained  dog  on  a  warm  trail,  he  rubbed  his  over-de- 
veloped chin,  twinkling.  "  You  see,"  he  said,  with  glee, 
"  it  tallies  exactly  !  "  Then  he  asked  a  sharp  question : 
"  You're  sure  there  was  nothing  in  the  bag  when  he 
went  to  the  house?  " 

"  Absolutely,"  said  Purcell.  "  I  went  with  him  right 
up  to  the  entrance  to  Dinsmore's  grounds.  I  know  the 
bag  was  empty  when  he  went  in,  and  when  he  came  out 
there  was  six  hundred  dollars  in  it.  The  time,  too, 
tallies  exactly  with  what  she  says."  He  nodded  toward 
the  pearl-grey  sheets. 

McMurtry  rubbed  his  chin,  and  let  a  hot  little  note 
of  triumph  out  of  him  —  not  explosively,  but  in  a  kind 
of  thrust,  like  a  knife-blow ;  "  It's  a  cinch !  It's  a 

118 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  119 

cinch,  old  man !  I  said  from  the  first  that  if  Dinsmore 
was  paying  this  man  blackmail  the  man's  story  was 
true.  And  Dinsmore  is  paying  him  blackmail."  He 
was  hot  and  avid  about  it,  the  smell  of  fat  prey  in  his 
nostrils  —  yet  all  subdued,  tightly  in  hand. 

The  gaunt,  colourless  managing  editor,  with  too-big 
hands  and  feet,  smelled  the  prey  also,  yet  was  disturbed 
and  swallowed. 

"  She  says  they  seemed  friendly,"  he  observed,  sus- 
piciously. 

"  It's  got  to  be  an  old  story  with  them  by  this  time," 
McMurtry  observed. 

Still  Purcell's  uneasiness  nagged  him.  "  If  Dinsmore 
murdered  this  other  man  —  John  Colby  —  and  if  the 
coon  is  afraid  of  him  as  he  says  —  seems  sort  of  odd 
that  he'd  be  going  up  there  alone  every  month,"  he  sug- 
gested, half  apologetically. 

"  Why,  as  to  that  murdering  business,  I  don't  pay 
any  attention  to  it,"  McMurtry  explained,  patiently. 
"  Probably  the  man  died  suddenly  of  peritonitis  or 
something  else  and  Pomeroy  just  imagined  Dinsmore 
poisoned  him.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  man  died 
by  inches  of  tuberculosis  or  Bright's  disease.  A  fellow 
like  Pomeroy,  you  know,  is  pretty  sure  to  lie  at  some 
point  or  other  —  just  for  dramatic  effect,  or  to  save 
his  own  face,  or  for  no  particular  reason  at  all.  I've 
had  plenty  of  experience  with  them,  as  witnesses  and 
so  on.  They're  pretty  apt  to  embroider  more  or  less 
as  they  go  along.  .  .  . 

"  As  to  that  murdering,  I  don't  pay  any  attention 


120  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

to  it.  It's  got  nothing  in  particular  to  do  with  our 
case  anyhow.  Dinsmore  is  paying  the  man  money. 
It's  a  hundred  to  one,  the  money  is  blackmail,  and  if 
it's  blackmail  it's  a  hundred  to  one  the  story  is  true. 
We  know  the  thing  did  happen  out  there  in  Nebraska 
just  as  Pomeroy  said." 

He  opened  a  drawer  in  his  desk,  took  out  a  sheet  of 
yellow  telegraph  paper  and  contemplated  it  with  affec- 
tion, much  as  a  collector  of  prints  of  books  gloats  over 
a  rare  find.  It  was  dated  at  Billingtown,  Nebraska, 
and  read: 

"  Crops  out  here  look  fine.     Never  better. 

P.  J.  TELLER." 

It  was,  of  course  from  Morden  —  the  first  report 
the  lawyer  had  received  from  him.  They  had  agreed 
that  if  the  detective's  inquiries  on  the  spot  substantiated 
the  negro's  account  of  the  robbery  and  murder  in  every 
respect,  he  should  wire  that  crops  were  fine.  He  had 
added,  "  Never  better,"  which  showed  how  well  pleased 
he  was. 

There  was  another  wire,  four  days  later,  which  ran : 
"  Don't  believe  I'll  buy  here  now.  Want  to  look  fur- 
ther." 

It  meant  that  Morden  judged  it  best  not  to  approach 
Peter  Sykes  at  that  time,  or  until  he  had  looked  up  Dr. 
Dill. 

"  That  was  a  point  that  stuck  in  my  mind,"  Purcell 
observed,  apologetically,  shaving  his  lips  with  bent  fore- 
finger. "  Of  course,  if  the  coon  thought  Dinsmore  was 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

likely  to  kill  him,  it  seemed  odd  he'd  be  going  up  there. 
.  .  .  But,  as  you  say,  Colby  may  have  died  of  peri- 
tonitis." The  managing  editor,  in  fact  was  both  fas- 
cinated and  frightened  by  the  enterprise  in  which  he 
found  himself  engaged.  McMurtry  had  brushed  aside 
one  fear,  but  another  bobbed  helplessly  into  its  place. 

"  Seems  odd,"  said  Purcell,  between  apprehension  and 
shame  of  it,  "  that  Dinsmore  would  be  having  the  coon 
come  up  there  to  his  houSe,  instead  of  having  him  come 
to  the  office  or  just  mailing  him  a  check." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  mailing  him  any  check,"  the  lawyer 
replied  decisively  —  and  out  of  considerable  personal 
experience  with  such  affairs.  "  Nine  times  out  of  ten 
blackmail  is  paid  in  cash.  Neither  side  wants  a  record 
of  it  and  a  check  leaves  a  record.  Dinsmore  wouldn't 
want  this  old  nigger  cashing  his  check  somewhere  every 
month.  He  wouldn't  want  him  coming  to  the  office, 
either  —  where  a  dozen  people  would  see  him  to  every 
one  that  saw  him  at  the  house,  and  Dinsmore  would  be 
surer  of  controlling  the  people  at  the  house,  too.  Dins- 
more  has  managed  that  well  enough.  Jenny  Dupee  had 
been  in  the  house  three  years,  you  know,  and  she  had 
never  heard  of  the  nigger  until  she  got  it  from  us.  He's 
managed  it  well*  enough."  And  as  that  good  manage- 
ment simply  confirmed  his  opinion,  he  repeated,  "  He's 
paying  blackmail." 

"  Yes ;  it  looks  so,"  Purcell  admitted  —  and  then 
swallowed,  his  deep-set,  luminous  eyes  flickering  at  the 
lawyer's  steady,  grey  eyes.  "  Of  course,"  he  suggested 
in  that  hesitant  manner  which  apologized  for  his  ap- 


122  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

prehensions,  "  Alfred  Dinsmore  is  a  man  that  can  put 
up  a  big  fight  —  no  end  of  money  and  pull  and  friends 
and  all  that.  He  can  put  up  a  big  fight.  The  point  is 
to  be  sure  we've  got  him  cinched.  Probably  —  we'll  be 
hearing  something  more  from  Morden  in  a  day  or  two." 

"  Probably,"  McMurtry  replied  with  a  certain  dry- 
ness,  his  twinkling  eyes  studying  his  friend's  cadaverous 
face.  In  fact,  for  some  time,  a  certain  reaction  had 
been  taking  place  in  the  lawyer's  mind  —  a  reaction 
against  the  managing  editor's  fears  and  doubts  and  sus- 
picions. As  their  affair  unfolded,  he  had  discovered  — 
with  surprise  —  that  at  bottom  his  friend's  nerves  were 
exceedingly  unstable.  That  was  rather  annoying,  and 
disgusting.  And  the  reaction  in  the  lawyer's  mind  was 
tending  in  a  highly  practical  direction.  He  was  think- 
ing that  if  a  man  is  afflicted  with  weak  nerves  you 
needn't  give  him  much  consideration;  he's  got  to  take 
what  you  hand  him. 

"  If  he  gets  one  of  those  men  out  there,  and  the  man 
can  identify  Dinsmore,"   the  managing  editor  said  — 
beating  over  the  ground  again  to  brace  up  his  hope. 
He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  for  the  conclusion  was 
self-evident. 

The  plan  was  that  Morden  should  go  out  to  Nebraska 
and,  first,  verify  the  negro's  story  of  the  bank  robbery 
and  murder  in  the  early  autumn  of  1881.  That  Mor- 
den had  already  done,  as  his  wire  testified.  By  the 
negro's  account  two  witnesses  were  presumably  still 
alive  —  Peter  Sykes,  a  participant  in  the  robbery  and 
eye-witness  of  the  shooting,  and  Dr.  Dill  who  had 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  123 

treated  the  murderer  for  a  gun-shot  wound  on  the  night 
of  the  crime. 

As  an  accomplice  in  the  robbery  Sykes  was  legally 
answerable  for  the  murder ;  but  he  hadn't  fired  the  shot, 
or  intended  to  spill  blood.  The  crime  happened  thirty 
one  years  ago.  If  Sykes  should  now  come  forward, 
make  a  confession  and  turn  state's  evidence  against  the 
shooter  there  was  no  doubt  at  all  —  in  McMurtry's 
judgment  —  that  he  would  go  scot  free. 

Of  course,  they  didn't  mean  that  Sykes  should  turn 
state's  evidence.  They  meant  that,  for  a  very  hand- 
some consideration,  he  should  confront  Alfred  Dins- 
more  and  affirm  his  willingness  to  turn  state's  evidence 
•and  identify  Dinsmore  on  the  witness's  stand.  If  Dins- 
more  then  raised  the  point  that  thereby  Sykes  would 
put  his  own  neck  in  a  noose,  they  could  reply  that  Sykes 
would  have  nothing  to  fear. 

Dr.  Dill  was  not  a  witness  of  the  shooting,  but  if  he 
could  identify  Dinsmore  as  the  young  man  he  had 
treated  for  a  gun  shot  wound  that  night,  it  would  be 
almost  equally  convincing.  With  either  of  those  wit- 
nesses in  hand,  they  were  prepared  to  charge  Dinsmore 
with  the  crime.  When  Purcell  said,  "  If  he  gets  one  of 
those  men  out  there  and  the  man  can  identify  Dinsmore," 
there  was  no  need  to  say  more. 

McMurtry,  twinkling  over  it,  rubbed  his  chin  and 
said  with  a  slow,  deep  relish,  "  If  he  gets  one  of  those 
men  out  there  and  the  man  identifies  Dinsmore  —  Dins- 
more  will  come  across.  .  .  .  Not  for  a  hundred  thou- 
sand, or  half  a  million,  or  a  million  —  but  for  half  he's 


124-  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

worth.  .  .  .  Half  he's  worth.  .  .  .  He's  got  to."  And 
the  way  he  said  it  was  somehow  suggestive  of  a  man 
driving  a  knife  in  —  not  hastily,  but  with  sure,  steady 
pressure  —  right  up  to  the  hilt. 

Purcell's  cavernous  eyes  glowed  and  he  took  a  deep 
breath  as  he  repeated,  "  He's  got  to !  " 

Two  days  later  they  received  another  telegram  from 
Morden.  It  said,  "  Have  bought  the  farm ;  start  back 
tonight." 

It  meant  that  he  had  made  a  satisfactory  arrange- 
ment with  Dr.  Dill.  The  affair  seemed  to  be  going 
badly  for  Alfred  Dinsmore. 

In  another  vital  respect  affairs  were  going  badly  for 
Alfred  Dinsmore  —  to-wit : 

It  was  the  first  Sunday  in  June,  with  summer  un- 
folding opulently  under  a  genial  sky.  All  the  leafage 
still  had  its  spring  freshness  and  showed  manifold  del- 
icate shades  of  green.  The  flowers  were  coming  out 
with  virginal  gorgeousness ;  the  lake  shone  blue  and 
murmured  at  the  beach;  a  day  to  be  glad  that  one  is 
alive. 

Dinsmore,  smoking  his  after-breakfast  cigar  —  a  late 
breakfast  on  Sundays  —  and  strolling  in  his  grounds, 
felt  all  that  but  couldn't  respond  to  it.  There  was  a 
painful  disturbance  in  his  mind,  and  a  sore  pull  at  his 
heart.  His  wife,  the  night  before,  had  finally  felt  she 
ought  to  tell  him  something. 

He  strolled  along  the  crown  of  the  bluff  at  the  lake 
shore,  his  feet  pressing  grass  like  velvet  and  at  his  back 
a  dwelling  rich  enough  for  a  prince.  It  was  his ;  much 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  125 

goodly  gear  was  his;  in  some  tendered  possessions  he 
was  fortunate.  .  .  .  Surely,  the  lake  was  lovely.  He 
looked  out  over  it  and  his  mind  appreciated  its  loveli- 
ness. But  his  heart  ached,  and  he  asked  the  bland 
prospect,  with  bitterness  and  a  smother  of  useless 
anger:  "  Why  does  it  have  to  be  this  way?  " 

Then  his  eye  lighted  upon  another  sight,  as  gracious 
as  the  day  and  lovely  as  the  lake  —  his  tall,  handsome 
daughter,  bareheaded,  slippered,  in  a  morning  gown, 
strolling  toward  him  from  the  house.  One  couldn't 
reasonably  ask  a  fairer  object  to  look  upon,  but  at  sight 
of  her  Dinsmore's  heartache  strengthened.  She  was 
his  whole  trouble. 

Strolling  nearer,  Louise  smiled  at  her  father.  In 
fact,  there  was  something  ulterior  in  her  strolling.  He 
was  on  her  mind  as  she  was  on  his,  and  her  heart  ached, 
too.  She  wanted  very  much  that  morning  to  be  recon- 
ciled to  him,  to  draw  close  to  him  again  —  for  she 
wanted  his  support  and  help  in  a  big  trouble.  So  she 
smiled,  as  she  came  near,  and  spoke  genially: 

"  Splendid,  isn't  it." 

"  Immense !  "  he  said. 

She  joined  him  and  they  strolled  together.  She  men- 
tioned the  flowers  and  shrubs  and  various  things  that 
were  only  at  the  farthest  edge  of  her  mind  —  smiling, 
or  with  a  low  ripple  of  laughter,  being  the  sweetest 
she  knew;  exerting  herself,  so  to  speak,  to  cuddle  up 
to  him. 

That  teased  his  sore  heart.  He  had  to  love  her  im- 
mensely, which  made  his  trouble  the  more  intolerable. 


126  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

She  was  chattering  brightly  on,  cuddling  up.  .  .  .  But 
since  his  wife  had  told  him,  he  couldn't  let  it  pass ;  he 
had  to  have  it  out  with  her.  So,  with  a  slight  frown 
•and  a  tug  at  his  beard,  he  blurted  abruptly: 

"  You're  still  running  around  with  young  Proctor.'* 

Immediately  he  knew  he  had  said  it  wrong,  and  felt 
•a  kind  of  despair.  It  had  been  more  or  less  that  way 
from  the  time  she -cooed  in  his  arms,  the  distance  from 
her  curly  head  to  her  pink  toes  hardly  greater  than 
from  one  of  his  shoulders  to  the  other,  and  wouldn't 
stop  pulling  his  beard.  The  defiant  will  in  that  ador- 
able little  length  of  flesh  was  trying  to  him  in  just  the 
measure  of  his  adoration.  More  or  less  they  had  al- 
ways been  clashing.  He  seemed  as  helpless  as  she  to 
prevent  it.  But  all  their  other  clashes  had  been  mere 
distant  shimmerings  of  heat  lightning  compared  to  the 
storm  over  Ned  Proctor.  That  had  been  the  kind  that 
uproots  and  devastates.  .  .  .  The  moment  he  spoke  he 
knew  he  had  begun  wrong. 

Louise  had  come  out  to  woo  him  and  be  reconciled, 
yearning  for  his  fatherly  support  in  her  tribulation. 
At  his  assault  a  big  wave  of  anger  ran  through  her  and 
she  thought,  "  So  mother's  been  tattling !  "  But  she 
fought  at  first  with  a  woman's  weapons.  That  is,  she 
looked  down,  the  lids  demurely  veiling  her  eyes,  and 
said  with  a  kind  of  docile  protest : 

"  I  should  hardly  call  it  running  around,  father. 
I've  seen  Ned  four  or  five  times  this  spring.  You  know 
how  it  is  with  him  —  in  that  bank  all  day.  He's  out  of 
all  his  clubs  and  doesn't  go  anywhere.  The  only  place 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  127 

he  has  even  to  play  tennis  is  on  that  vacant  lot  by  the 
blacksmith  shop.  I've  taken  him  to  lunch  with  me." 
She  spoke  docilely,  but  knew  well  enough  that  in  com- 
miserating young  Proctor  she  was  throwing  darts  at  her 
father. 

"  Plenty  of  young  men  have  no  place  at  all  to  play 
tennis,"  he  retorted,  in  high  impatience. 

"  They're  not  my  friends,  and  Ned  is,"  she  replied. 
"  I  suppose  there  is  nothing  scandalous  in  a  young 
woman  lunching. in  a  tea  room  with  a  young  man  who's 
an  old  friend.  What's  wrong  with  poor  Ned  now  ?  He 
works  like  a  dog  and  supports  his  mother.  I  think  it's 
detestable  the  way  everybody  has  dropped  him." 

She  wouldn't  stop  pulling  his  beard ;  and  his  exasper- 
ation egged  him  on.  "  You  know  that's  nonsense,  Lou. 
As  you  said  yourself,  he  simply  can't  afford  clubs  and 
the  way  he  used  to  live.  Would  you  like  him  to  come 
in  as  a  charity  patient?  Millions  of  young  men  make 
their  way  in  the  world  without  as  many  advantages  as 
he  has.  If  you're  his  friend  why  don't  you  let  him 
alone?  You  and  he  showed  a  preference  for  each  other 
—  enough  that  people  noticed  it.  He  was  counted 
out.  You  became  engaged  to  another  man  —  a  man 
that  wouldn't  like  your  going  around  with  Proctor. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do.  Then  you  pick  Proctor 
up  again  —  take  him  to  lunch  with  you  and  so  on.  You 
say  there's  nothing  scandalous  about  it.  I  don't  agree 
with  you.  What  good  does  it  do  Proctor?  It  puts 
you  in  a  position  to  be  talked  about  disagreeably.  A 
woman  has  no  business  to  put  herself  in  that  position. 


128  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

It  doesn't  make  any  difference  how  good  her  intentions 
are.  Putting  herself  in  a  position  to  be  talked  about 
isn't  holding  herself  high ;  it's  holding  herself  cheap  and 
bedraggled.  I  want  you  to  shine  clear  —  not  spat- 
tered up  with  mud.  You  can  be  sure  Lowell  Winthrop 
does  too." 

He  wasn't  saying  what  he  really  wanted  to  say,  or 
in  the  way  he  wanted  to  say  it.  He  couldn't,  because 
his  mind  was  hot  and  bubbling  with  that  helpless  ex- 
asperation against  her  lovely  rebelliousness. 

"  No ;  I  suppose  you  and  Lowell  don't  want  me  spat- 
tered up,"  she  replied.  "  I  suppose  a  man  wants  his 
women  folk  like  his  automobiles  —  so  shiny  he  can  see 
his  own  satisfied  face  in  them.  Why  shouldn't  your 
women  want  you  shiny,  too,  father,  and  not  talking  like 
a  Turk  over  a  little  lunch  with  poor  old  Ned  Proctor?  " 

Piqued  by  her  thrusts  he  flung  back,  "  Son  of  poor 
old  Thomas  Proctor  who  was  only  a  thief  and  a  liar." 

She  had  grown  a  bit  pale  in  the  encounter,  her  eyes 
growing  darker.  Something  flashed  up  in  her  rebel- 
lious mind,  and  she  asked,  "  Haven't  plenty  of  other 
families  made  mistakes?  Black  sheep  happen  every- 
where." 

She  had  no  more  expected  to  say  that  than  to  bite  out 
her  tongue.  It  said  itself  like  most  else  that  was  said 
in  this  clash  of  two  high-tempered,  roiled  persons. 
What  flashed  up  in  her  mind  was  this:  More  than  a 
year  before,  carelessly  opening  a  drawer  in  the  library 
table,  she  had  found  a  bundle  of  bank  notes  in  it.  That 
evening  an  old  negro  had  called  at  the  house  to  see  her 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  129 

father.  She  had  known  about  the  negro's  calls  before, 
and  not  been  particularly  curious ;  it  was  some  affair  of 
her  father's.  After  she  stumbled  on  the  money  she 
Wasn't  particularly  curious  and  kept  no  particular 
watch.  The  fact  had  laid  in  her  mind  —  no  business 
of  hers  in  any  event,  but  not  forgotten.  She  didn't  see 
any  particular  connection,  but  the  little  speech  just 
made  itself. 

The  little  speech  might  have  meant  anything,  or  noth- 
ing; but  somehow  it  struck  Dinsmore  with  a  peculiar 
and  arresting  implication.  For  an  instant  he  looked 
at  her  with  a  challenging  question ;  then  raised  his  hand 
to  his  beard ;  said,  "  Well,  you  know  how  I  feel  about 
Proctor,"  and  turned  away. 

A  miserable  ending  and  a  miserable  situation.  They 
both  felt  that  acutely ;  both  their  hearts  ached  and  life 
tasted  bitter  in  both  their  mouths.  Dinsmore  felt, 
moreover,  a  great  humiliation.  He  was  a  man  of  some 
ability.  Every  other  situation  he  could  meet  with  skill 
and  address;  but  this  situation,  which  meant  more  to 
him  than  all  the  others,  he  just  bungled  and  bungled. 
He  felt  that,  with  deep  humiliation. 

However  restrained  their  tones  and  looks  had  been, 
their  aspect  was  still  the  aspect  of  people  in  a  quarrel. 
They  instinctively  realized  that  and  smoothed  their 
brows  when,  as  Dinsmore  turned  away,  they  perceived 
there  was  a  witness. 

True,  this  witness  was  only  Cousin  Elliot,  dutifully 
taking  a  morning  constitutional  by  a  stroll  around  the 
lawn,  which  stroll  had  now  brought  him  so  near  to  them 


130  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

that  he  might  have  overheard  the  final  words.  He  was 
wearing  a  new,  fawn-coloured  summer  suit  and  a  new 
straw  hat  —  his  trousers  the  creasiest  and  his  shoes 
the  shiniest.  Yet  he  seemed  not  to  be  taking  the  usual 
infantile  satisfaction  in  a  very  smart,  correct  costume. 
His  broad,  ruddy  face,  with  overhanging  pink  chops, 
wore  a  perplexed  look  and,  what  was  most  unusual,  he 
was  plucking  at  his  snowy  beard  with  plump  thumb  and 
finger.  Apparently,  he  had  something  on  his  mind. 

With  the  instinctive  deceit  which  the  most  candid 
persons  resort  to  in  such  a  situation,  Louise  and  her 
father  smoothed  out  the  signs  of  their  quarrel,  and 
Louise  spoke  up  cheerfully: 

"Isn't  this  a  lovely  day,  Cousin  Elliot?" 

Cousin  Elliot  looked  abroad  at  it,  as  though  he  hadn't 
noticed  before,  and  replied  judicially,  "  A  fine  day.  I 
noticed  yesterday  the  jonquils  are  out.  They're  fine 
this  year." 

"  And  the  peonies,  too,"  said  Louise. 

"  Yes,"  Cousin  Elliot  replied,  gravely.  "  You 
haven't  read  the  newspaper  yet  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  at 
her  anxiously. 

"  Why,  I  glanced  over  the  headlines  at  breakfast," 
she  answered,  mildly  surprised  —  for  she  didn't  remem- 
ber that  Cousin  Elliot  had  ever  before  displayed  inter- 
est in  the  day's  news. 

"  It's  Sunday,  you  know,"  he  observed  with  gravity. 
"  Jenny  hasn't  read  the  paper  yet." 

"  Something  you  wanted  to  know  about,  Cousin  El- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  131 

liot?  "  she  asked,  with  a  bit  of  wonder  and  a  kindly  in- 
tention. "  I  can  get  the  paper  for  you."  She  recalled 
that  he  could  read,  after  a  fashion  and  with  much 
labour,  although  she  believed  he  almost  never  did. 

"  You  looked  at  the  headlines  ?  "  he  inquired  hope- 
fully. "  You  didn't  notice  that  they'd  hung  any- 
body?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  a  little  shocked  at  the  oddity 
of  the  question.  "  I'm  sure  they  haven't  hung  any- 
body." 

"  They  did,  you  know,"  he  answered  very  gravely. 
"  It  was  in  the  newspaper.  Jenny  read  it  to  me.  They 
hung  a  man  down  town.  Someway,  I  was  thinking  of 
that  last  night." 

She  remembered  then  that  the  newspaper  of  Saturday 
morning  had  contained  an  account  of  an  execution. 
Evidently  it  had  disturbed  Cousin  Elliot.  She  hastened 
to  reassure  him: 

"  That  was  a  legal  execution,  you'know.  They  hung 
the  man  because  he  killed  another  man.  It  won't  hap- 
pen again." 

Cousin  Elliot  pondered  that  statement  a  moment,  re- 
moving his  straw  hat.  "  It  might,  you  know."  he  re- 
plied cautiously.  "  They  might  do  it  again.  You 
can't  tell."  His  usual  placid  brow  wrinkled  and  he 
looked  anxiously  at  Dinsmore.  "  I  wouldn't  go  down 
town  for  a  few  days  if  I  were  in  your  place,  Alf.  You 
can't  tell.  They  might  do*it  again." 

Louise  had  never  heard  Cousin  Elliot  call  her  father 


132  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Alf  "  before.  Her  father  replied  cheerfully.  "  No 
danger.  See,  there  goes  Slocum's  new  power  boat. 
See  the  spray  it  makes." 

Cousin  Elliot  looked  lakeward,  where  Dinsmore  was 
pointing;  but  for  once  his  afflicted  mind  was  not  to  be 
diverted  from  its  unusual  perplexity. 

"  Hanging  a  man,  now,"  he  observed  very  gravely, 
fingering  his  white  beard.  "  I  think  we  all  better  stay 
right  at  home  till  this  sort  of  blows  over.  I  wouldn't 
go  down  town  if  I  were  you  —  not  for  a  week  or  so. 
Better  all  of  us  stay  right  here  at  home.  It's  taking  a 
risk  "  — 

But  Dinsmore  broke  in  with  a  laugh.  "  Don't 
bother.  No  danger  at  all."  By  that  time  he  had 
slipped  a  hand  under  Cousin  Elliot's  arm.  "  Come  on. 
Let's  you  and  I  go  in  and  have  a  game  of  cribbage. 
We  haven't  had  a  game  of  cribbage  in  a  coon's  age." 

Smiling,  with  a  compulsive  hand  under  Cousin 
Elliot's  arm,  he  led  the  afflicted  man  toward  the  house, 
talking  cheerfully  to  him  on  the  way  as  Louise  could 
see. 

She  was  astonished,  for  she  would  as  soon  have  ex- 
pected to  see  her  father  turn  handsprings  on  the  lawn 
as  play  cribbage  with  Cousin  Elliot. 


CHAPTER  VI 

McMURTRY  and  Morden  were  standing  near  a 
front  window  in  the  lawyer's .  private  office  — 
the  burly  detective  untidy  as  usual,  wearing  a  much 
rumpled  coloured  shirt,  a  turn  down  collar  not  perfectly 
clean,  rusty  shoes.  His  hair  thrust  out  above  his 
square  brows,  and  there  was  the  usual  surly  look  — 
like  a  dog  ready  to  bite  —  on  his  wide-mouthed,  nubbin- 
nosed  face.  But  the  lawyer  was  glossily  shaved  and  his 
hair  elaborately  barbered.  The  detective,  in  fact,  had 
alighted  from  the  train  only  half  an  hour  before. 
McMurtry  was  listening  intently  to  his  report. 

"  I  looked  Sykes  over,"  Morden  was  saying ;  "  but  I 
didn't  try  to  do  any  business  with  him.  He  didn't  look 
very  good.  Seems  he  scraped  up  a  little  money  some- 
how and  went  into  a  real  estate  scheme,  dozen  years  ago 
or  more,  and  one  of  those  booms  came  along.  They  say 
he  cleaned  up  twenty-five  or  thirty  thousand  dollars 
finalty  and  put  the  money  in  a  cheese  factory  and  that's 
doing  first  rate.  Peter's  something  in  the  leading 
citizens  line  now  —  no  booze,  no  cards  and  so  on.  I 
rubbed  up  against  him  some.  Naturally,  he  thinks  he's 
a  hell  of  a  fellow  now;  thinks  as  much  of  himself  as  A. 
Dinsmore,  Esquire.  I  reckoned  he'd  shy  off  at  any 
strong  arm  work.  So  I  concluded  to  run  the  doctor 
down. 

"  I  found  him  over  in  Kansas  at  a  place  they  call 
Sunny  Valley.  Probably  you  can  guess  it  from  the 

133 


134  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

name.  There's  a  valley  and  there's  a  sun,  but  there 
ain't  much  else.  The  old  boy's  plumb  at  the  end  of  his 
rope  all  around.  He  managed  to  make  a  kind  of  a  living 
at  Billingtown,  before  they  run  him  out,  by  giving  his 
fellow  soaks  prescriptions  for  whiskey  and  helping  some 
dope  fiends  get  opium  and  cocaine.  Couple  of  drug 
stores  that  filled  the  prescriptions  helped  him  along. 
Finally  they  got  after  him  strong  and  drove  him  out. 
He's  been  on  his  uppers  ever  since  —  one  place  and  an- 
other. When  I  found  him  at  Sunny  Valley  he  was 
sleeping  on  what  used  to  be  a  lounge  in  what  used  to  be 
an  office.  He  was  ready  enough  to  come  along.  Prob- 
ably he'd  cut  his  grandmother's  throat  for  ten  dollars 
and  a  week's  supply  of  morphine.  Tanner's  got  him  in 
tow  now  and  will  patch  him  up  so  he'll  last  the  week  out 
anyhow." 

"  You  haven't  told  him  what  he  was  wanted  for  ?  " 
McMnrtry  asked,  going  back  to  a  point  they  had  dis- 
cussed oefore  Morden  went  to  Nebraska. 

"  No,"  the  detective  grumbled.  "  It  wouldn't  make 
any  difference  to  him.  For  car  fare  and  meals  he'd 
go  anywhere.  No  trouble  at  all  to  handle  him." 

"  But  for  our  own  satisfaction,  Jake,"  the  lawyer 
replied  persuasively.  "  Probably  he'd  cheerfully  swear 
that  almost  anybody  was  the  man  he  attended  the  night 
•of  the  bank  robbery  at  Billingtown.  But  we  don't  want 
him  to  swear  to  anything.  We  want  to  know  exactly 
where  we  stand.  Dinsmore's  a  big  man." 

"  You  been  talking  to  Purcell,"  the  detective 
growled,  contemptuously. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  135 

But  the  lawyer  only  smiled.  "'No,  I  haven't.  Pur- 
cell's  got  the  willies.  I  only  want  to  be  sure." 

"  It's  a  cinch,"  Morden  replied.  "  What  else  would 
he  be  playing  blackmail  for  ?  " 

"  I  think  it's  a  cinch  myself ;  but  I  propose  to  know 
it,"  said  the  lawyer.  He  was  swarthily  smiling;  but 
his  overdeveloped  jaw  and  chin  looked  determined. 
"  Here's  what  I  propose :  We'll  take  this  doctor  where 
he  can  get  a  good,  long  look  at  Alfred  Dinsmore  and 
we'll  ask  him  if  he  ever  saw  that  man  before.  Nobody 
has  mentioned  that  Billingtown  business  to  him ;  no  rea- 
son why  he  should  be  thinking  of  it.  If  he  can  identify 
Dinsmore  to  us,  we'll  know  exactly  where  we  stand  — r- 
no  question  about  it." 

The  detective  appreciated  the  point,  but  was  loath  to 
acknowledge  it.  "  Well,  let's  get  it  started,"  was  all 
he  would  say. 

"  Dinsmore  usually  walks  to  the  Boulevard  Club  for 
lunch,"  the  lawyer  went  on ;  "  across  the  river  and 
down  Michigan  Boulevard.  It's  better  than  a  mile  — 
constitutional,  I  suppose.  I'll  get  a  closed  car  and 
instruct  the  chauffeur.  We'll  wait  for  Dinsmore  over 
near  his  office  and  trail  him.  Our  man  can  get  a  good 
look  at  him.  If  we  don't  see  him  today  we  will  to- 
morrow." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  detective ;  "  I'll  fetch  our  doc- 
tor in."  He  turned  abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

Leaving  the  train,  with  his  witness,  Morden  had 
driven  to  his  own  office  where  Mr.  James  Tanner 
awaited  him.  Morden,  Tanner  and  Dr.  Dill  had  then 


136  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

driven  to  McMurtry's  office  where  the  latter  two  were 
shown  into  a  side  room.  In  only  a  moment  therefore 
Morden  returned  to  McMurtry's  room  accompanied  by 
a  short,  broad,  pot-bellied  man  who  was  wearing  an 
aged,  grease-stained  Prince  Albert  coat,  light-coloured 
trousers  and  dilapidated  shoes  —  evidently  a  ceremonial 
garb  of  other  and  better  days.  His  standing  collar 
was  not  very  clean  and  his  plaid  four-in-hand  tie  was 
frayed.  He  had  a  fine  brow,  a  bulbous  nose  and  a  little 
round  chin  that  seemed  not  to  belong  with  the  rest  of 
his  face.  The  face  was  barred  by  a  drooping  grey 
moustache  and  the  misfit  chin  made  it  look  as 
though  it  had  been  cut  up  into  a  puzzle  picture  and 
a  child,  in  putting  it  together,  had  picked  out 
the  wrong  lower  piece.  He  was  sallow,  much  wrin- 
kled and  his  watery  eyes  were  permanently  blood 
shot. 

"Dr.  Dill,  Mr.  McMurtry,"  said  the  detective  in 
brusque  introduction. 

Dr.  Dill  extended  a  flabby  hand  which  the  lawyer 
genially  shook.  The  doctor's  manner  was  nervous  and 
propitiating  like  that  of  a  homeless  dog  more  used  to 
kicks  than  bones. 

"  We  want  your  services,  doctor,  and  we're  going  to 
pay  you  well  for  them,"  said  the  lawyer  with  expansive 
encouragement.  "  There's  a  big  law  suit  here,  with  a 
great  deal  of  money  involved.  If  we  can  get  the 
evidence  we  want,  we'll  pay  high  for  it.  If  we  don't 
get  it,  we'll  pay  you  for  your  time  and  trouble  any- 
way. For  the  present  don't  ask  any  questions.  Just 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  137 

put  yourself  in  our  hands.  You'll  be  well  taken  care 
of." 

The  doctor  smiled  nervously,  shifted  his  battered, 
broad-brimmed  hat  to  the  other  hand  and  said  in  a 
voice  habitually  tremulous,  "  Well  —  I  hope  I  can  help 
you  out."  Then  he  looked  up  at  the  detective  like  a 
trained  dog  awaiting  another  cue  from  his  master. 

"  All  right,  doc,"  said  Morden,  in  his  hoarse,  aggres- 
sive voice,  laying  a  powerful  hand  on  the  other's  flabby 
shoulder.  "  There  won't  be  anything  else  until 
about  —  " 

He  looked  at  the  lawyer. 

"  Half  past  twelve,"  said  McMurtry,  swarthily  beam- 
ing. 

"  Half  past  twelve,"  Morden  repeated.  "  Jim  Tan- 
ner will  take  good  care  of  you  till  then  and  bring  you 
back  here  on  time.  You  can  see  the  city  a  little." 
Both  of  them  treated  the  doctor  in  the  manner  of  a 
school  teacher  heartening  a  timorous  new  pupil. 

Dr.  Dill  was  then  turned  over  to  the  trustworthy 
hands  of  James  Tanner  who  was  an  employe  of  the 
Morden  Detective  Agency.  When  the  lawyer  and  de- 
tective were  alone  again  McMurtry  rubbed  his  chin 
somewhat  dubiously.  "  Pretty  seedy  now,"  he  com- 
mented ;  "  but  with  some  new  clothes,  and  Tanner 
toning  him  up  he  won't  make  such  a  bad  appearance. 
We  may  have  to  stand  him  up  in  front  of  Dinsmore  — 
and  we  may  not." 

"  If  he  can  spot  the  man,  there's  nothing  to  it,"  said 
the  detective,  with  decision. 


138  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Well,  if  he  spots  him  —  it's  a  cinch,"  the  lawyer 
assented,  and  for  a  moment  they  looked  deeply  at  each 
other  —  for  a  great  deal  of  money  rose  upon  their  inner 
visions. 

"  Purcell  been  around  ?  "  the  detective  asked,  with  an 
incidental  air. 

"  He  comes  around,"  the  lawyer  replied,  twinkling 
with  a  perfect  comprehension  of  the  other's  drift. 

"He's  a  crab.  We'll  give  him  what  he's  worth,"  the 
detective  growled,  sententiously. 

"  There  won't  be  any  trouble  in  handling  Purcell," 
McMurtry  replied,  with  a  very  good-natured  expres- 
sion, but  decisively. 

"  Never  much  trouble  handling  a  man  that  ain't  got 
any  guts,"  Morden  observed,  out  of  a  large  experience. 
He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I'll  be  back  before  half  past 
twelve.  You'll  see  to  the  car?  " 

McMurtry  nodded  and  they  parted  for  an  hour  and 
a  half. 

The  two  great,  uniform  buildings  of  the  Dinsmore 
Company  look  like  another  city  cleanly  set  down  in  the 
mean  and  grimy  clutter  of  the  older  city.  From  the 
main  entrance  of  the  easterly  building  —  an  entrance 
which,  although  hundreds  of  people  can  pass  quickly 
through  its  four  broad  glass  doors,  seems  inadequate 
for  such  a  pile  —  Alfred  Dinsmore  stepped  briskly  at 
a  quarter  to  one  o'clock.  The  cement  walk  in  front  of 
the  building  was  broad  and  clean,  but  on  leaving  it  he 
went  down  three  steps  to  a  dirty  street,  ill-paved  with 
worn  granite  blocks,  and  on  crossing  the  street  was  im- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  139 

mediately  in  an  environment  of  small,  shabby  buildings, 
devoted  to  shabby  uses.  He  was  hardly  aware  of  them, 
however,  as  he  kept  his  habitual  course  up  the  street, 
then  presently  across  the  river  on  a  shabby  old  bridge. 
When  he  got  out  on  Michigan  Boulevard,  with  a  clear 
view  to  the  lake  at  the  east,  his  mind  consciously  lifted 
to  the  blue  sky  and  genial  air. 

He  walked  rapidly,  mechanically  accommodating 
himself  to  the  traffic  on  the  bridge  and  at  the  cross 
streets  which  brought  him  to  a  halt  now  and  then  until 
there  was  a  clear  way  ahead.  Nothing  about  the 
vehicular  traffic  made  any  impression  upon  him,  al- 
though all  the  way  along  a  green  limousine  kept  as 
close  to  the  curb  and  to  him  as  possible. 

"  There's  the  man  now,  coming  toward  us  —  the 
man  in  a  grey  suit  and  light  brown  hat —  the  one  with 
a  beard.  I  want  you  to  watch  that  man  just  as  close 
as  you  can  and  see  whether  you've  ever  seen  him  before." 
So  McMurtry  had  spoken,  with  restrained  eagerness, 
like  one  setting  a  dog  to  a  scent,  when  the  car  stood 
at  the  curb  and  Dinsmore  came  out  of  the  Dinsmore 
Company's  building. 

Dr.  Dill  had  been  put  next  the  right  hand  window, 
to  give  him  the  best  possible  view.  He  stretched  his 
short  neck  and  held  his  sallow  and  wrinkled  face  close 
to  the  pane  —  raising  his  short  body  now  and  then  in 
a  half-squatting  posture.  He,  too,  was  eager,  for  they 
had  said  it  meant  a  great  deal  of  money.  He  wanted 
some  of  that  money  terribly,  and  although  the  gentle- 
men had  talked  handsomely  about  compensating  him 


140  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

anyway  he  knew  well  enough  the  compensation  would 
depend  on  the  value  of  his  services  to  them.  So  he 
peered  with  all  his  might,  out  of  his  watery  eyes  with 
the  tiny  red  threads  in  them.  A  temporary  jam  at  the 
bridge  brought  him  so  close  to  Dinsmore  that  by  open- 
ing the  door  he  could  almost  have  touched  him  and 
when  Dinsmore  turned  his  head  a  little,  the  doctor  got 
three-quarters  of  his  face.  Then  the  foot  passengers 
went  ahead,  while  the  car  was  detained.  Dr.  Dill  sank 
back  in  the  seat  and  turned  to  McMurtry  who  sat  in 
the  middle. 

"  I've  certainly  seen  that  man  somewhere  before," 
he  said  with  much  earnestness  in  his  tremulous  voice. 
"  I  remember  something  about  his  face.  It's  familiar. 
I'll  place  him  yet." 

In  fact  his  labouring  mind  was  quite  blank ;  but  his 
hopes  were  clinging  to  the  money. 

At  the  Public  Library  he  got  another  good,  prolonged 
look.  "  Yes,  yes !  "  he  quavered,  in  greater  agitation. 
"  I've  certainly  seen  that  man  before  .  .  .  There's 
something  familiar.  I  know  I've  seen  him  before." 

Mostly  Dinsmore  walked  at  the  farther  side  of  the 
flagging  and  a  flow  of  people  between  him  and  the  car 
obscured  the  view;  or  there  would  be  cars  along  the 
curb  so  they  had  to  swing  out  in  the  street.  But  the 
doctor  kept  watching  with  all  his  might.  Again  for 
a  minute  or  more  he  had  an  almost  clear  view,  and 
when  traffic  once  more  shut  it  off  the  doctor  clasped 
his  brow  with  a  shaky  hand,  urging  on  the  machinery 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  141 

within.  Abruptly  he  turned  to  McMurtry  in  high  ex- 
citement and  demanded: 

"  What  is  that  man's  name  ?  " 

"  Alfred  Dinsmore,"  the  lawyer  replied,  considering 
there  could  be  no  harm  in  that. 

Dr.  Dill  clutched  the  lawyer's  arm,  wagging  his  head 
with  energy  and  exclaimed,  "  I  know !  I  know !  "  The 
puffy  flesh  puckered  around  his  watery  eyes  as  he  peered 
with  a  breathless  questioning  at  McMurtry  and  then 
at  Morden.  He  seemed  to  have  received  a  great  shock 
that  left  him  fearful.  His  eyes  looked  furtive  and 
alarmed.  In  a  lower  tone,  with  an  indrawing  of  breath, 
he  said,  "  It  was  thirty  years  ago ;  but  I  know." 

McMurtry's  nerves  leapt ;  but  he  made  no  attempt  to 
press  the  doctor  then.  He  only  put  a  reassuring  hand 
on  his  knee,  smiled  and  said  heartily,  "  We'll  get  some 
lunch  and  then  we'll  talk  it  over  —  up  in  my  office. 
You  can  be  sure  we  will  take  good  care  of  you." 

And  at  luncheon  he  merely  talked  cheerfully  on  sub- 
jects remote  from  the  one  in  their  minds  —  a  cue  which 
the  detective  followed.  When  the  three  were  snugly 
seated  in  his  private  office  McMurtry  again  put  a  reas- 
suring hand  on  the  doctor's  knee,  beaming,  and  brought 
up  the  real  subject: 

"  You  needn't  be  afraid.  We're  going  to  take  care 
of  you.  You're  safe  as  a  bear  in  a  hollow  tree.  You 
treated  that  man  professsionally  at  Billingtown,  Ne- 
braska, some  thirty  years  ago." 

Dr.  Dill  hesitated  a  moment,  furtive  and  tremulous. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Still  beaming  and  with  a  very  significant  little  nod, 
the  lawyer  remarked  "  That  man  is  worth  millions." 

The  remark  seemed  to  be  illuminating  to  the  doctor. 
"  I  treated  that  man  for  a  gunshot  wound  in  Peter 
Sykes'  house  the  night  Latham  was  killed  by  bank  rob- 
bers," he  replied. 

McMurtry  nodded  and  said,  "  Tell  us  about  it.  It 
means  a  fortune  for  you." 

The  doctor's  shaky  voice  took  up  the  narrative: 
"  Sykes  came  for  me  about  half  past  three  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  had  an  office  over  a  harness  shop  about  a  block 
off  Main  Street  and  I  slept  in  the  room  back  of  the 
office.  Sykes  came  for  me.  When  I  let  him  in  he  said, 
*  Hustle  on  your  clothes,  doc ;  I've  got  a  case  for  you ! ' 
He  was  —  an  aggressive  kind  of  a  man  —  abrupt.  I 
started  to  dress  and  he  said,  '  A  friend  of  mine's  been 
hurt.'  He  stood  by  pulling  his  long  moustache  while 
I  dressed.  I  was  putting  on  my  coat  and  he  pulled  a 
big  roll  of  money  out  of  his  pocket  and  showed  it  to  me 
and  said  '  Mum's  the  word,'  so  I  knew  it  was  something 
—  contraband.  I  stepped  into  the  office  from  the  bed 
room  to  get  my  medic/ine  case  and  Sykes  followed  me  and 
said,  '  The  man's  been  shot  in  the  shoulder.  He's 
feverish.  Don't  take  that  thing.  We'll  carry  what 
you  need  in  our  pockets.'  So  I  took  some  things  out 
of  the  case  and  picked  up  what  else  I  judged  I'd  need. 
I  put  some  in  my  pockets  and  Sykes  put  some  in  his. 
We  went  down  the  back  stairs  and  when  we  came  out 
on  the  street  I  saw  there  was  something  going  on  over 
on  Main  Street.  There  were  lanterns  and  I  heard  men 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  143 

talking  and  a  horse  galloping  —  quite  a  commotion  for 
that  time  of  night.  It  must  have  been  pretty  near  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  —  or  a  quarter  of  four  —  for 
when  Sykes'  rapping  woke  me  up  and  I  lit  a  lamp  and 
looked  at  the  clock  I  saw  it  was  half  past  three.  I 
wondered  what  it  was,  but  I  don't  remember  that  I  said 
anything  about  it.  But  I  remember  Sykes  saying,  *  I 
hear  the  First  National  Bank  was  robbed  tonight,' 
and  I  felt  sure  that  was  why  he  had  come  for  me.  I 
followed  him  when  he  went  out  in  the  road  instead  of 
walking  on  the  sidewalk  where  our  footsteps  might  at- 
tract attention. 

"  I  went  into  Sykes'  house  with  him.  He  took  me 
in  the  back  door.  It  was  just  a  cabin  —  a  shack,  as 
we  call  it.  The  house  looked  dark  as  a  pocket  to  me, 
but  Sykes  said,  '  All  quiet  ?  '  and  his  wife  said,  '  Yes.' 
She  was  a  very  —  subdued  woman.  Sykes  was  a  bad 
egg  then.  Sykes  went  into  a  room  and  lit  a  lamp  and 
I  followed  him.  It  was  a  small  bedroom.  The  man  was 
on  the  bed,  feverish  —  in  a  good  deal  of  pain.  He'd 
been  shot  in  the  shoulder.  Sykes  had  dosed  the  wound 
with  whiskey  and  bound  it  up.  I  gave  him  an  opiate 
and  dressed  the  wound.  It  wasn't  serious  —  with 
proper  care." 

"  And  you  saw  him  after  that  ?  "  McMurtry  asked. 

"  I  saw  him  every  day  —  or  every  night  —  fcv  a  week 
or  more,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Twice  a  day  at  first.  I 
spent  a  good  deal  of  time  with  him."  He  lifted  a  fore- 
finger. "  His  jaw  had  been  broken.  He  never  told 
me  how,  although  I  asked  once.  I  judged  it  had  hap- 


144  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

pened  at  least  a  year  before.  There  was  a  big  welt  and 
scar  clear  across  his  chin."  With  a  finger  tip  he  out- 
lined it  on  his  own  diminutive  chin.  "  He'll  carry  that 
to  the  day  of  his  death." 

"  But  you  recognized  him  even  with  his  chin  covered," 
said  the  lawyer. 

Dr.  Dill  nodded  with  satisfaction.  "  I  recognized 
him  —  his  eyes  and  forehead  —  and  his  nose.  I'm  cer- 
tain it's  the  man."  He  hesitated  a  little,  regarding 
McMurtry  furtively  out  of  his  watery  eyes  and  felt 
tremulously  of  his  small  chin.  "  I  have  a  means  of 
—  identification."  He  opened  his  vest  and  from  the 
inner  pocket  drew  a  large  leather  wallet,  shiny  with 
long  use,  the  tough  material  worn  through  at  the  ends 
where  the  flap  folded  over.  Holding  this  aged  wallet 
in  his  hand,  he  explained : 

"  When  I  got  to  the  house,  Sykes  had  partly  un- 
dressed the  man.  He'd  pulled  off  his  coat  and  shirt 
and  undershirt.  Of  course  Sykes  wanted  to  take  care 
of  the  patient  himself  if  he  could  without  calling  in 
anybody.  But  with  the  pain  and  rising  fever  the  man 
had  become  slightly  delirious.  Sykes  had  got  scared 
and  decided  to  call  me.  Sykes  had  partly  undressed 
him,  as  I  said,  and  thrown  the  clothes  over  in  a  corner  of 
the  room.  But  in  taking  off  his  shirt  one  of  the  cuff 
buttons  had  fallen  out  and  lay  on  the  floor  at  the  edge 
of  the  bed.  I  noticed  it  when  I  pulled  a  chair  up  there." 

Again  the  doctor  hesitated  a  little.  "  It  occurred  to 
me  then  that  it  might  be  valuable  as  a  means  of  identi- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  145 

fication,  so  when  I  got  a  chance  I  picked  it  up  and  put 
it  in  my  pocket." 

He  opened  his  wallet,  which  looked  painfully  flat, 
undid  a  little  strap  that  fastened  one  of  its  pockets  and 
from  that  pocket  produced  a  silver  link  cuff-button 
which  he  laid  on  the  table,  pointing  to  it  significantly. 

McMurtry  picked  it  up.  Immediately  his  swarthy 
face  lighted  with  a  triumphant  grin.  He  gave  a 
chuckle,  handed  the  button  over  to  Morden,  and  rubbed 
his  white  hands  together  with  warm  satisfaction.  Even 
the  morose  detective  grinned  broadly  as  he  looked  at  the 
button.  x  On  each  of  its  two  sides  the  initials  "  A.  D.  " 
were  engraved. 

The  lawyer's  good  nature  was  even  augmented  by  a 
notion  that  as  Dr.  Dill  could  hardly  have  seen  the  en- 
graving while  the  button  lay  on  the  floor,  his  original 
motive  in  picking  it  up  was  none  other  than  simply  to 
possess  himself  of  a  bit  of  silver.  With  that  notion 
he  reached  over,  in  an  unusually  expansive  mood,  and 
clapped  the  doctor  on  the  shoulder. 

"  You're  a  corker,  doctor !  "  he  declared.  "  And 
you've  kept  it  all  these  years !  " 

With  a  mind  divided  between  flattery  at  the  compli- 
ment and  something  else,  the  doctor  replied,  "  I've  kept 
it  all  these  years." 

It  was  practically  the  only  thing,  external  to  his 
own  hide,  that  he  had  kept  all  those  years.  Being  en- 
graved with  the  owner's  initials  the  button  would  be 
worth  merely  its  bullion  value,  which  might  be  twenty- 


146  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

five  cents.  If  it  had  been  solid  gold  he  would  un- 
doubtedly have  parted  with  it  long  since.  As  it  was, 
he  had  been  sorely  tempted  more  than  once.  But  the 
button  was  a  token  of  his  greatest  adventure.  There 
had  always  been  in  his  mind  a  vague  notion  that  some- 
thing would  finally  come  of  it.  So  he  had  been  able 
to  resist  temptation  to  the  extent  of  twenty-five  cents.- 

McMurtry  examined  the  trinket  again,  with  the 
greatest  satisfaction.  "  Dr.  Dill,  that  cuff  button 
cinches  your  story,"  he  said  benevolently.  "  On  the 
strength  of  it  I'm  going  to  put  five  thousand  dollars  to 
your  credit  on  my  books  right  now  —  as  a  starter,  you 
understand.  You  just  lie  quiet  and  follow  Mr.  Mor- 
den's  advice  here  and  do  as  you're  told  and  there's  going 
to  be  a  fortune  in  this  for  you.  Of  course,  you  must  be 
very  —  very  —  careful  what  you  say  and  what  you  do 
for  the  present.  You  just  follow  Morden's  advice. 
Any  spending  money  you  want  for  the  present,  you 
can  have.  Be  quiet  and  careful  now." 

So  with  a  hearty  handshake  and  the  friendliest  air, 
Dr.  Dill  was  again  relegated  to  the  care  of  James  Tan- 
ner. 

When  the  door  closed  on  him,  Morden  turned  to  the 
lawyer  with  the  positive  statement,  "  It's  a  cinch !  " 

McMurtry,  looking  affectionately  down  at  the  silver 
trinket  which  lay  in  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  rubbed 
his  chin  with  the  right  hand  like  a  man  engaged  in 
pleasant  cogitation.  For  a  long  moment,  twinkling,  he 
thought  it  over.  Then  he  pronounced  his  judgment: 
"  It's  a  cinch !  " 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  147 

"  Let's  go  after  him  right  away,"  said  Morden 
cheerfully,  as  though  he  meant  to  call  a  cab  that  minute. 

The  lawyer,  however,  went  back  to  his  broad  arm 
chair  by  the  office  table  and  gave  himself  up  to  reflec- 
tion for  a  time  that  proved  irritatingly  long  to  the 
detective. 

"  It's  got  to  be  handled  right,"  he  said,  thoughtfully. 
"  I  want  to  get  the  drop  on  him  —  take  him  by  sur- 
prise. A  man  like  Dinsmore,  you  know  —  if  he  knew 
what  was  coming  he  might  put  up  a  fight  ...  I  want 
to  jump  him  when  he  isn't  looking.  And  a  man  like 
that,  Jake  —  why,  you  can't  just  open  the  door  and 
walk  in.  Go  to  his  office  and  he'll  send  out  his  secre- 
tary to  ask  what  you  want  to  see  him  about  —  or  to 
say  he's  engagec  Go  to  his  house  and  the  butler  will 
probably  shut  the  door  in  your  face  unless  you've  got 
an  appointment.  It's  necessary  to  have  an  appoint- 
ment or  you  simply  can't  get  near  him.  And  if  you 
ask  for  an  appointment  he'll  naturally  ask  what  you 
want  to  see  him  about.  It's  got  to  be  arranged.  ..." 

He  fell  to  thinking  again  while  the  detective  looked 
morose. 

"  We'll  get  Purcell  to  fix  it,"  the  lawyer  finally  said. 
"  Of  course,  we've  got  to  give  him  a  report  on  develop- 
ments anyway.  J.  Wesley  Tully  is  scared  stiff  over 
this  libel  suit  of  Dinsmore's.  I'll  get  Purcell  to  per- 
suade him  that  I  can  settle  it  for  him.  If  Tully  asks 
Dinsmore  to  see  me,  as  his  lawyer  in  the  libel  suit,  Dins- 
more  will  do  it.  Of  course,  Dinsmore  doesn't  like  suing 
a  newspaper  any  too  well.  No  man  does,  for  there's 


148  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

no  telling  what  a  newspaper  may  do  to  him.  It's  like 
holding  a  bear  by  the  tail  at  best.  Tully  has  stand- 
ing and  so  on.  If  he  asks  Dinsmore  to  give  me  an  ap- 
pointment, as  his  lawyer,  Dinsmore  will  do  it.  I'll  get 
hold  of  Purcell." 

Morden  admitted  the  sagacity  of  that  arrangement 
and  left  it  to  the  lawyer. 

To  Purcell  therefore  the  lawyer  that  evening  recited 
the  developments  of  the  day,  describing  Dr.  Dill's  identi- 
fication of  Dinsmore  and  exhibiting  the  engraved  cuff 
button. 

It  all  looked  convincing.  But  the  managing  editor 
was  unfortunately  so  constituted  that  while  he  could 
screw  himself  up  to  a  bold  action  the  screws  were  con- 
stantly coming  loose.  Suspense  was  demoralizing  to 
him.  This  Dinsmore  adventure  was  always  on  his 
nerves,  his  uneasy  mind  conjured  up  doubts  and  fears. 
So  now  he  made  McMurtry  go  over  the  identification  in 
detail. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  finally  asked,  "  that  he  really 
did  remember  Dinsmore's  face?  " 

"  Why,  sure!  What  else?  "  the  lawyer  demanded. 

The  managing  editor  nervously  shaved  his  lips  with 
a  bent  forefinger  and  put  it  judicially:  "  Well,  look  at 
it  scientifically.  That  bank  robbery  was  the  biggest 
thing  that  had  ever  happened  to  him.  He'd  kept  that 
cuff  button  all  this  time,  which  shows  how  it  stuck  in 
his  mind.  Then  another  big  thing  happens  to  him  — 
more  mysterious  than  the  bank  robbery.  A  stranger 
looks  him  up,  gives  him  money,  brings  him  to  Chicago, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  149 

where  he's  told  to  look  at  a  certain  man  and  see  if  he 
can  remember  him.  It  wouldn't  take  his  wobbly  mind 
very  long  to  make  a  connection  between  that  and  th? 
old  bank  business.  What  else  had  ever  happened  in  his 
life  that  a  mysterious  stranger  would  be  fetching  him 
to  Chicago  to  identify  a  man  for?  Do  you  really  think 
he'd  remember  Dinsmore's  face  —  Dinsmore  with  a 
beard  —  after  all  that  time  ?  His  wobbly  mind  does 
make  the  connection.  He  asked  the  man's  name.  His 
initials  are  A.  D.  —  same  as  the  cuff  button.  Then  he 
says  he  remembers  him." 

McMurtry  smiled  and  shook  his  head.  "  If  Dinsmore 
handed  you  a  million  dollars  in  greenbacks  the  first 
thing  you'd  say  was  '  This  is  probably  counterfeit 
money.  I'd  better  throw  it  in  the  lake  or  I'll  be 
pinched.' '  He  laughed  indulgently,  for  he  proposed 
to  keep  on  the  best  of  terms  with  this  doubting  young 
man  for  the  present.  "  I've  combed  it  all  over  and  I 
tell  you  it's  a  cinch.  Besides,  you  know,  I'm  taking  all 
the  risk.  I'm  not  asking  you  to  tackle  Dinsmore." 

Purcell  had  nothing  to  say  to  that. 

"  Here's  what  I  want  of  you  now,"  the  masterful 
lawyer  went  on ;  and  unfolded  his  idea  that  Purcell 
should  persuade  Tully  to  engage  McMurtry  in  the  libel 
matter  and  get  Dinsmore  to  consent  to  talk  with  him. 
They  discussed  that  at  length.  Purcell  should  intimate 
to  Tully  that  McMurtry  had  some  very  special  argu- 
ment up  his  sleeve  and  could  get  Dinsmore  to  withdraw 
the  suit.  Purcell  would  say  that  McMurtry  was  doing 
this  out  of  personal  friendship  for  the  managing  editor. 


150  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

The  first  thing,  after  Mr.  Tully  had  been  put  in  a  re- 
ceptive frame  of  mind,  would  be  a  conference  between 
McMurtry  and  the  editor  of  the  Leader  at  which  the 
lawyer  would  arrange  the  method  of  broaching  the 
matter  to  Dinsmore. 

It  proved  as  easy  as  McMurtry  had  expected.  The 
editor  of  the  Leader,  profoundly  disturbed  at  Dins- 
more's  libel  suit,  caught  eagerly  at  this  plausible  sug- 
gestion of  a  way  to  rid  himself  of  it.  At  the  conference 
with  McMurtry  he  readily  swallowed  the  lawyer's  hints 
at  some  very  special  influence  that  could  be  brought  to 
bear.  Anything  that  promised  to  free  him  of  that 
disastrous  libel  suit  was  food  he  hungered  for. 

"  I  don't  believe  Mr.  Dinsmore  knows  just  what  I've 
got  in  mind,"  said  McMurtry,  smiling  at  the  editor  and 
with  an  air  which  implied  that  two  shrewd,  experienced 
old  hands  like  himself  and  Mr.  Tully  could  understand 
a  great  many  things  without  having  them  printed  in 
big  black  headlines.  "  I  want  to  take  him  off-guard, 
you  see,  before  he's  had  time  to  think  it  over  much  and 
especially  before  he  takes  it  up  with  his  lawyers.  Mel- 
ford,  Farson  &  Winthrop  might  put  a  flea  in  his  ear. 
My  idea,  Mr.  Tully,  would  be  that  you  try  to  find  out 
whether  he's  got  an  engagement  this  evening  or  to- 
morrow evening.  The  Dinsmores'  social  engagements 
are  things  that  I  suppose  you  can  pretty  easily  find  out 
about.  Get  an  evening  when  he  seems  to  have  no  en- 
gagement; then  call  him  up  about  dinner  time.  Tell 
him  you  regret  that  libel  suit.  Say  if  you  and  he  had 
had  a  little  talk  about  it  in  the  first  place  it  could  all 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  151 

have  been  arranged  and  the  suit  avoided  or  something 
like  that ;  but  now  that  the  suit's  been  brought,  of 
course,  you've  got  to  defend  yourself.  My  idea  would 
be  to  taffy  him  up  and  be  very  friendly  and  all  that  — 
but  just  to  let  him  understand,  all  the  same,  that  if 
there's  got  to  be  a  fight  it  will  be  a  disagreeable  fight. 
You  could  say  you  didn't  want  to  go  into  a  great  row 
and  mess  if  you  could  avoid  it ;  you  wanted  very  much 
—  very  much  indeed  —  to  fix  it  up  and  settle  it  and  get 
it  out  of  the  way  if  you  could.  You  could  say  you 
had  engaged  Mr.  McMurtry  as  counsel  and  he  felt  sure 
the  whole  thing  could  be  arranged  satisfactorily  to  both 
sides  and  without  making  a  great  muss  of  it  if  only  it 
was  taken  in  time.  And  you  could  say  you  very 
earnestly  wanted  him  to  let  Mr.  McMurtry  have  a  talk 
with  him  immediately  —  that  evening;  Mr.  McMurtry 
would  come  right  up  to  his  house ;  an  hour's  time  would 
be  all  he  needed.  That  would  be  my  idea  of  the  way  to 
approach  him,  Mr.  Tully,  and  if  he  will  consent  to  see 
me  I  am  very  confident  I  can  settle  the  thing  for  you." 

The  eccentric  editor  was  delighted  with  the  prospect 
and  promised  heartily  to  follow  his  volunteer  counsel's 
suggestions.  As  it  happened  Mr.  Dinsmore  did  have  an 
engagement  that  evening ;  but  the  following  evening  just 
as  he  w  's  about  to  sit  down  to  the  family  dinner  he  was 
notified  vhat  Mr.  J.  Wesley  Tully  was  on  the  telephone 
urgently  requesting  speech  with  him. 

Over  the  wire  the  editor  played  the  role  for  which 
McMurtry  had  cast  him.  That  libel  suit  was  a  dis- 
agreeable thing  to  Dinsmore  also.  Of  course,  he  had 


152  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

been  angry  when  he  read  the  libel  —  because  it  was  a 
libel  on  his  business.  That  business  had  often  enough 
been  libelled  by  innuendo  and  indirection,  for  it  was  a 
highly  unpopular  one  among  retail  merchants  with  whom 
it  competed.  Dinsmore  always  resented  that,  for  the 
honour  of  the  business  was  a  sort  of  narrower  but  more 
intimate  patriotism  with  him.  The  Leader's  gross  libel 
therefore  roused  his  fighting  blood.  At  that,  probably, 
he  wouldn't  have  sued  except  for  Lowell  Winthrop's 
solid  argument  that  he  owed  himself  and  society  the 
duty  of  bringing  the  outrageous  newspaper  to  book. 
He  knew  it  threatened  to  ruin  J.  Wesley  Tully,  who 
wasn't  a  bad  sort  at  heart,  but  only  a  fool.  He  re- 
gretted that.  So,  without  the  least  hesitation,  he  con- 
sented to  see  Mr.  Tully's  legal  representative,  heartily 
hoping  that  a  satisfactory  way  out  of  the  mess  would 
be  presented  to  him. 

But  as  he  ate  dinner,  his  mind  ran  upon  it,  and  mis- 
givings arose.  He  had  heard  various  stories  about 
Lawrence  McMurtry,  none  of  them  likely  to  inspire  con- 
fidence in  that  gentleman.  .  .  .  Why  should  Tully  have 
engaged  that  dubious  person?  Why  this  sudden  request 
for  a  conference  up  here  at  his  house?  Lawrence 
McMurtry  was  enough  to  put  any  prudent  man  on  his 
guard.  And  J.  Wesley  Tully  was  a  weak  brother, 
which  is  sometimes  worse  than  a  deliberately  wicked 
brother.  Dinsmore  thought  it  over,  with  misgiv- 
ings. .  .  . 

McMurtry  reached  the  house  about  a  quarter  of  nine 
and  was  at  once  shown  into  the  library  where  Dinsmore 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  153 

waited  for  him.  He  was  standing  over  by  the  table 
and  McMurtry  noted,  with  a  touch  of  malice,  that  he 
didn't  offer  to  shake  hands,  but  merely  bowed  across  the 
distance  that  separated  them,  indicated  the  chair  at  one 
side  of  the  table,  then  walked  around  and  seated  him- 
self on  the  other  side. 

"  Well,  let  the  snob  have  it  that  way  if  he  wants  to  — 
for  the  time  being,"  McMurtry  thought,  as  he  advanced 
to  the  proffered  chair.  His  own  manner  was  bland  and 
hearty. 

"  Of  course,  Mr.  Tully  has  told  you  my  business," 
he  began  with  cheerful  briskness.  "  He  regrets  this 
libel  very  much.  It  would  never  have  got  into  the  paper 
if  he  had  read  that  letter  through.  The  fact  is,  he  was 
in  a  great  hurry  and  merely  glanced  over  the  fore  part 
of  it.  He  thought  it  was  all  about  politics  and  gave 
instructions  to  print  it  —  which  he  never  would  have 
done  if  he  had  read  it  through.  Certainly  that's  no 
excuse  in  law,  but  it  may  be  some  excuse  just  between 
men." 

"  If  it  had  been  only  a  personal  libel  I  should  have 
ignored  it,"  Dinsmore  replied.  "  But  it  said  my  busi- 
ness was  nothing  but  a  swindle.  Naturally  I  think 
rather  well  of  my  business  and  feel  bound  to  protect  it." 

In  this  by  play  the  lawyer  was  nerving  himself.  In 
spite  of  himself,  the  big  house,  as  a  symbol  of  position 
and  power,  made  a  certain  impression  upon  him.  Face 
to  face  across  the  table,  Dinsmore  made  a  certain 
impression  —  the  impression  of  a  cool,  able,  formidably 
armed  person. 


154  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Certainly ! "  he  assented  blandly.  "  Any  man 
would.  But  an  injury  to  a  business  can  always  be  made 
good.  We  all  make  our  mistakes,  you  know.  I've  made 
mine.  Probably  you've  made  yours."  He  was  getting 
himself  in  hand. 

**  No  doubt,"  Dinsmore  replied  drily ;  "  and  had  to 
pay  for  them,  too." 

"  Of  course !  Exactly !  "  said  the  lawyer,  well  pleased. 
"  We  have  to  pay  for  them." 

"  Unfortunately,  my  business  isn't  welcome  to  a  great 
many  people,"  Dinsmore  remarked.  "  Retail  merchants 
generally  don't  like  it.  They're  always  throwing  a 
brick  at  it.  This  thing  of  Tully's  brought  all  that  out 
in  the  open  where  I  could  hit  it." 

"  People  will  talk  —  about  what  they  don't  like," 
said  McMurtry.  "  About  a  man  like  you  there'll  al- 
ways be  stories  in  circulation."  For  the  fraction  of  a 
second  he  measured  the  man  across  the  table  —  and 
struck.  "  Only  the  other  day  a  man  told  me  you  mur- 
dered a  bank  cashier  named  Latham  in  Billingtown,  Ne- 
braska, thirty-one  years  ago."  He  said  it  in  an  even 
tone  and  watched  the  knife  go  home. 

Dinsmore  sat  perfectly  still.  For  a  moment  the 
healthy  but  low-toned  colour  of  his  face  did  not  change. 
It  was  his  eyes  that  showed  the  cut.  They  did  not  fal- 
ter from  McMurtry's  face ;  it  didn't  look  like  fear,  but 
rather  like  an  animal,  struck  to  the  vitals,  summoning 
up  its  power  to  fight  —  crouching  to  launch  itself. 
His  hands  remained  motionless  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 

"  He  told  me,"  McMurtry  went  on  steadily,  "  that 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  155 

you'd  left  your  home  in  St.  Joe  —  probably  a  youth- 
ful indiscretion  —  and  associated  yourself  with  one 
John  Colby,  a  county  fair  fakir.  You  ran  the  soap 
game.  Colby  had  trouble  with  the  bank  cashier  at  Bill- 
ingtown.  A  resident  of  that  town  named  Peter  Sykes 
proposed  that  they  rob  the  bank.  Colby  and  his  out- 
fit went  up  to  Bleeker,  Nebraska ;  left  there  Friday  and 
camped  Saturday  night  some  twenty  odd  miles  from 
Billingtown.  Colby  and  a  negro  named  William 
Pomeroy  and  yourself  took  the  outfit's  three  horses  and 
rode  to  Billingtown  that  night.  You  hitched  the  horses 
in  a  ravine  where  Peter  Sykes  met  you.  Then  you  went 
to  the  bank.  Pomeroy,  the  negro,  kept  guard  at  the 
alley  and  you  kept  guard  back  of  the  bank  while  Colby 
and  Sykes  dug  through  the  vault  wall  and  blew  the  safe. 
The  explosion  woke  the  cashier.  He  ran  down  the  back 
stairs  in  his  night  shirt.  Probably  you  were  rather 
panicky  at  the  moment.  You  shot  him  at  the  foot  of 
the  stairs.  It  was  a  fatal  wound,  but  he  shot  you  in  the 
shoulder  before  he  died.  Sykes  took  you  into  his  house 
and  called  a  certain  Dr.  Dill  who  dressed  your  wound 
and  took  care  of  you  until  you  and  Sykes  went  to  Stand- 
ing Rock  to  meet  Colby.  That  is  the  story,  Mr.  Dins- 
more."  He  spoke  steadily,  yet  there  was  a  kind  of 
hush  in  his  utterance  as  from  nerves  tightly  keyed  up. 

"Who  told  you  that  story?  "  Dinsmore  asked,  in  a 
voice  as  steady  as  the  lawyer's. 

"  That  is  under  the  seal,"  McMurtry  replied ;  "  a 
confidence  between  lawyer  and  client.  The  important 
point  is  whether  the  story  is  true." 


156  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Of  course,  it  isn't  true,"  Dinsmore  answered 
promptly  —  but  almost  casually,  as  though  his  mind 
were  engaged  with  something  else. 

"  The  man  who  shot  the  bank  cashier  Latham  had  a 
broken  chin  —  a  ragged  scar  across  it,"  said  McMurtry. 
"  How  long  have  you  worn  a  beard?  " 

Dinsmore  ignored  the  question,  his  eyes  on  the  lawyer. 
"  A  story  of  that  kind  would  need  witnesses,"  he  said. 
McMurtry  noted  that  his  hands,  resting  on  the  edge 
of  the  table,  did  not  move  in  the  least. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  McMurtry  replied,  readily.  "  I 
have  them.  The  Dr.  Dill  who  attended  you  at  Sykes' 
house  when  you  were  wounded  is  here  in  Chicago.  He 
has  seen  you  and  positively  identified  you.  He  will 
swear  to  it  anywhere.  When  you  were  undressed  that 
night  in  Sykes'  house  a  cuff  button  fell  out  of  your 
shirt  —  a  silver  link  cuff  button  with  your  initials  en- 
graved on  it.  Dr.  Dill  preserved  it,  it's  in  my  posses- 
sion now." 

Dinsmore  raised  his  hand  to  his  beard  and  spoke 
sarcastically.  "  And  I  suppose  you're  prepared  to 
produce  John  Colby,  who  would  be  the  only  competent 
witness." 

McMurtry  smiled.  "  My  information  is  that  John 
Colby  departed  this  life  very  suddenly  and  mysteriously 
a  year  or  so  ago  after  a  visit  to  you.  You  might  be 
able  to  throw  some  light  on  that,  but  it's  immaterial. 
Dr.  Dill  is  sufficient.  He  didn't  know  what  he  was 
wanted  for  when  he  was  brought  here  to  Chicago.  He 
was  placed  where  he  could  get  a  good  look  at  you,  with- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  157 

out  even  knowing  your  name.  Tom  Wilson  was  the 
name  you  used  then.  He  looked  you  over  and  said, 
*  That's  the  man  I  treated  for  a  gunshot  wound  the 
night  the  bank  was  robbed  at  Billingtown  and  the 
cashier  killed.5  He  will  repeat  that  statement  any- 
where. You've  been  paying  blackmail  for  years.  Why 
not  clean  it  up  ?  " 

Dinsmore  was  very  quiet,  and  all  the  time  eyeing 
his  opponent  —  a  quietness  that  suggested  a  still, 
crouching  animal.  "  What  method  of  cleaning  up 
blackmail  would  you  propose  to  a  client?"  he  asked 
with  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"  Well,  it's  true,"  said  McMurtry  more  composedly 
than  he  had  yet  spoken,  "  that  you  can't  make  a  bind- 
ing contract  —  in  the  nature  of  the  case.  A  man's  writ- 
ten agreement  not  to  divulge  —  a  murder,  for  instance 

isn't  enforcible  at  law.  You've  got  to  depend  on 

the  word  and  the  self-interest  of  the  people  who  are  in 
a  position  to  sell  you  their  silence.  The  competent 
witnesses  in  this  affair  are  old  men  now.  When  they're 
dead  you'll  be  free." 

"  Unless  I  set  up  successors  to  them,"  Dinsmore  re- 
minded him.  He  thought  it  over  further,  his  face  com- 
posed, and  said  coolly,  "  I'm  very  much  inclined  to  tell 
you  to  go  to  the  devil." 

"  But  it  would  be  you  who  would  go  there,"  McMur- 
try replied,  unruffled.  "  Dr.  Dill  is  sixty-five  or  so,  I 
judge,  and  not  in  good  health.  In  fact,  he's  been  a 
sort  of  superior  bum  for  a  long  time  and  is  about  all 
in.  Say  his  conscience  troubles  him.  He  goes  back  to 


158  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Billingtown  —  properly  attended  —  and  makes  a  con- 
fession for  the  good  of  his  soul,  incidentally  claiming 
the  protection  of  having  turned  state's  evidence.  Of 
course,  it's  a  story  that  every  newspaper  in  the  United 
States  would  put  on  the  front  page  —  Alfred  Dinsmore, 
the  multi-millionaire,  eminent  in  society  and  so  forth. 
Only  once  in  a  life  time  the  newspapers  get  a  story  like 
that.  Certainly  it  would  please  all  these  retail  mer- 
chants who,  you  say,  don't  like  your  mail  order  busi- 
ness. Personally  I  haven't  a  doubt  in  the  world  that 
you'd  be  convicted  on  the  evidence  I  have  in  my  hand 
right  now.  What  else  were  you  paying  blackmail  for 
all  this  time?  But  even  if  you  were  finally  acquitted  — 
well,  there  wouldn't  be  much  left,  would  there,  of  the 
Alfred  Dinsmore  who's  now  sitting  across  the  table 
from  me ;  and  of  this  ?  "  He  glanced  around  the  hand- 
some room.  "  You  know  perfectly  well  you  can't  afford 
it.  Your  family  can't." 

Dinsmore  gnawed  at  his  lip  a  moment  and  folded  one 
hand  tightly  into  the  other.  "  What  do  you  want  ?  " 
he  demanded,  like  throwing  it  in  the  other's  face. 

McMurtry  had  considered  and  decided  that  point. 
He  answered  promptly,  "  Two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars." 

"  You  won't  get  it !  "  Dinsmore  replied  instantly. 

The  peremptoriness  of  the  refusal  was  a  surprise  to 
McMurtry,  and  nettled  him,  for  he  thought  he  had  the 
fish  securely  hooked.  "  In  that  case,  there's  nothing 
more  to  be  said,"  he  retorted,  and  made  as  though  to 
arise. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  159 

"  Very  well ;  good  evening,"  said  Dinsmore  tersely, 
without  stirring.  "  I'll  pay  no  two  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  dollars." 

McMurtry  stood  up.  "  The  •  story  will  be  in  the 
newspapers  tomorrow  morning,"  he  said,  and  turned 
his  back  and  walked  toward  the  door. 

"  We'll  fight  it  out,"  said  Dinsmore  from  his  seat  at 
the  table.  "  I'll  pay  no  two  hundred  and  fifty  thou- 
sand." He  gave  a  crooked  little  smile  and  added  as  a 
sort  of  taunt,  "  You  say  I've  been  paying  blackmail 
for  years.  In  that  case  I  know  how  the  game  is 
played.  You  don't  want  publication  any  more  than  I 
do.  That  spills  the  beans  for  you.  You'll  get  no  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand." 

That  statement  jarred  McMurtry 's  nerves.  He  had 
been  prepared  to  hear  Dinsmore  deny  the  story  and 
bluster  and  threaten ;  but  the  present  tactics  he  was 
quite  unprepared  for.  Dinsmore  denied  nothing;  but 
said  in  effect,  "  To  publish  the  story  is  to  end  your  hope 
of  extorting  money  from  me  and  so  to  spoil  your  game." 
Such  tactics  resolved  the  affair  into  a  game  of  poker  — 
bluff  against  bluff. 

McMurtry  realized  that  and  walked  on  toward  the 
door,  saying,  "  Good  night,  Mr.  Dinsmore." 

"  Good  night,"  Dinsmore  replied  coolly,  without 
moving. 

McMurtry  laid  his  hand  on  the  door  knob,  then 
turned  his  head  and  asked,  j  eeringly,  "  What's  your 
offer?  " 

Dinsmore     had     considered     that     and     answered 


160  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

promptly,    "  I'll   pay    seventy-five    thousand   dollars." 

The  lawyer  hesitated  an  instant,  hand  on  door 
knob.  "  I'll  split  the  difference  with  you,"  he  offered, 
as  though  that  were  final. 

"  Seventy-five  thousand ;  not  another  dollar,"  Dins- 
more  repeated. 

McMurtry  jerked  the  door  open  and  put  a  foot 
across  the  threshold ;  stood  that  way  a  moment ;  then 
came  back  into  the  room,  shutting  the  door  after  him 
and  walked  over  to  the  table  where  he  stood  looking 
down  at  the  man  opposite,  who  had  not  moved  a 
muscle  except  to  speak. 

"  I  forgot,"  said  the  lawyer,  half  angrily  and  half 
jocularly,  "  that  you  used  to  play  poker  and  run  corn 
deals." 

"  I  haven't  forgotten  how,"  Dinsmore  replied,  his 
face  still  a  mask  and  his  eyes  steady  as  levelled  pistol 
barrels. 

McMurtry  laughed  nervously,  dropped  into  the 
chair  and  said,  "  Make  out  the  check." 

In  fact  the  nerves  of  both  men  were  tensely  wound 
up  —  as  commonly  happens  at  a  crucial  point  of  the 
game  to  which  McMurtry  had  referred,  although  the 
players'  faces  may  be  perfectly  composed  and  their 
voices  careless. 

Dinsmore  considered  the  matter  of  the  check  an 
instant  and  replied,  "I  can't  give  you  a  personal  check 
for  seventy-five  thousand  dollars.  I  haven't  that  much 
to  my  personal  credit.  I'll  send  a  check  to  your  office 
by  messenger  before  ten  o'clock  tomorrow  morning." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  161 

McMurtry  appreciated  the  reasonableness  of  that 
and  didn't  doubt  the  promise.  He  got  up  again,  say- 
ing, "  Very  well.  I  shall  expect  it  before  the  clock 
strikes  ten." 

"  It  will  be  there,"  said  Dinsmore ;  and  without  fur- 
ther speech  the  lawyer  left  the  room.  He  didn't  go 
exactly  in  triumph.  He  had  collided  with  Dinsmore's 
nerve  and  felt  bruised.  As  he  left  the  house,  he  was 
thinking : 

"  I  wonder  if  he  was  bluffing.  .  .  .  Would  he  have 
let  me  go  without  raising  his  bid?  Of  course,  he  cal- 
culated that  I'd  rather  have  seventy-five  thousand  than 
spill  the  beans  .  .  .  Plenty  of  nerve  has  that  same 
Alfred  Dinsmore  .  .  .  Cool  as  a  cucumber  ...  A 
tough  customer  to  manage.  I've  got  to  be  careful  .  .  . 
But  I've  got  the  come-alongs  on  him  just  the  same." 

In  fact,  his  nerves  were  strained  and  his  mind  agitated 
from  the  sharp  contact.  "  I'd  better  have  called  his 
bluff  —  gone  out  and  let  him  come  to  me,"  he  thought. 
He  felt  a  surge  of  anger.  "  Rotten,  self-satisfied 
snob !  I'll  charge  it  up  to  him." 

By  that  time  Dinsmore  had  risen  and  was  pacing  the 
room  with  slow,  mechanical  steps,  his  mind  tensely  en- 
gaged with  what  had  passed.  He  went  over  it,  judg- 
ing, making  his  conclusions.  A  gulf  had  opened  before 
him  and  all  his  mental  resources  were  in  play  con- 
sidering what  he  should  do.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
or  so  he  paced  the  room,  deeply  absorbed  with  his  prob- 
lem. He  was  a  man  whose  thinking  ran  swiftly  to 
decisions  and  actions.  About  a  quarter  of  an  hour 


162  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

after  McMurtry  departed  he  went  quickly  up  stairs, 
changed  his  clothes  and  left  the  house  without  speaking 
to  any  one.  It  was  then  twenty  minutes  to  ten. 

He  had  been  gone  from  the  room  two  or  three  minutes 
•when  Jenny  Dupee  cautiously  stuck  her  head  from 
beneath  the  large  couch  in  the  corner  and  looked  around 
AS  well  as  she  could  from  that  position.  As  the  room 
was  perfectly  still  and  apparently  empty  she  rolled  out, 
stood  up,  gave  a  quick  glance  around  and  noiselessly 
fled  up  stairs. 

When  Jenny  was  engaged  by  Martha  Woods  to  spy 
upon  the  Dinsmore  household,  the  maid  surmised  that 
her  young  mistress's  relations  with  young  Edward  Proc- 
tor were  the  objective  point  of  the  spying.  Indeed,  at 
that  time,  when  the  motive  was  simply  to  "  get  some- 
thing "  on  Dinsmore  that  would  make  him  drop  the  libel 
suit  against  the  Leader,  those  relations  had  been  one 
of  the  objective  points  in  Martha  Woods's  mind,  or  in 
the  mind  of  Jacob  Morden  and  Lawrence  McMurtry 
who  moved  behind  the  scenes  in  the  matter.  Jenny  was 
not  merely  a  spy  for  hire.  Her  heart,  prompted  by  an 
insatiable  curiosity,  was  in  the  work.  She  had  been 
mightily  afraid;  but  the  further  she  got  along  in  the 
adventure  the  more  secure  it  seemed;  avarice  and 
curiosity  steadily  gaining  on  her  timorous  nerves,  she 
became  bolder. 

Then  the  adventure  had  taken  a  new  and  deeply 
exciting  bent.  She  had  been  informed  that  a  mysterious 
caller  would  wait  upon  Mr.  Dinsmore  and  she  was  to 
exert  herself  to  find  out  what  passed  between  them  — 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  163 

with  promise  of  large  reward.  She  had  exerted  herself. 
The  mysterious  caller  was  a  negro.  Mr.  Dinsmore  had 
given  him  a  bundle  of  money.  And  she  had  come  out 
of  it  scathless. 

That  negro  caller  didn't  look  at  all  like  a  love  affair. 
To  Jenny's  excited  imagination  the  case  took  on 
vaguely  vast  and  dark  proportions  —  some  deep  mys- 
tery in  which,  somehow  or  other,  great  sums  of  money 
were  involved.  Jenny  was  profoundly  stirred  thereby. 
Aside  from  the  egging  of  her  restless  curiosity,  she 
shrewdly  rea-soned  that  the  more  she  knew  of  the  mys- 
tery the  better  show  she  would  stand  when  it  came  to 
a  division  of  those  great  sums  of  money. 

That  had  been  her  general  state  of  mind  at  eight 
o'clock,  say,  of  this  present  evening.  Then  she  had 
seen  and  heard  something  that  whetted  her  to  a  razor 
edge  —  as  follows : 

When  Alfred  Dinsmore  finished  dinner  there  were 
some  doubts  and  misgivings  in  his  mind.  J.  Wesley 
Tully  had  called  him  up,  making  an  appointment  for 
Lawrence  McMurtry  to  call  that  evening  in  the  editor's 
behalf.  Dinsmore  had  readily  assented  .  .  .  Yet  it 
was  rather  odd  —  a  sudden  engagement  of  that  sort 
for  half  past  eight  or  a  quarter  to  nine  in  the  evening. 
"  As  soon  as  he  can  get  out  there,"  Tully  had  said. 
McMurtry's  reputation  was  not  reassuring.  There 
were  some  doubts  and  misgivings  in  Dinsmore's  mind. 

He  had  scarcely  finished  dinner  when  Lowell  Win- 
throp  strolled  casually  in.  Winthrop  was  a  neighbour, 
a  prospective  son,  and  Dinsmore's  lawyer  —  junior 


164  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

member  of  the  eminent  firm  that  handled  his  legal  affairs. 
Most  naturally,  therefore,  Dinsmore  had  mentioned  that 
McMurtrj  was  coming  to  the  house,  and  the  circum- 
stances. Winthrop  took  it  with  decidedly  greater 
seriousness  than  Dinsmore  had. 

Perfectly  groomed,  in  a  well-fitting  dinner  coat,  and 
perfectly  poised,  he  said  at  once :  "  The  fellow's  a 
thorough  blackleg.  Whatever  business  he's  in  is  dirty 
business.  Best  not  see  him." 

"  But  I've  made  the  appointment,"  Dinsmore 
objected.  "  I'm  willing  enough  to  clean  up  that  libel 
business.  After  all,  there's  nothing  in  it  but  annoyance. 
No  particular  reason  why  I  should  be  afraid  of  a  black- 
leg, either.  .  .  .  Only  —  well,  Tully's  a  conceited  ass 
with  no  balance  or  weight.  He  may  have  some  fool 
scheme  in  his  head  ...  I  don't  quite  like  it,  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact." 

"  McMurtry  is  a  thorough  blackleg,"  Winthrop  re- 
peated. "  If  you're  going  to  see  him,  I'll  be  present." 

Dinsmore  considered  that  an  instant  and  replied,  "  I 
hardly  like  that,  either.  The  door  is  open  to  Tully, 
you  know,  if  he  really  wants  to  clean  the  business  up. 
Having  you  in  the  room  might  look  as  though  it  wasn't." 

As  Dinsmore  spoke  Winthrop  had  been  thinking  it 
over,  and  something  had  occurred  to  him.  "  This  chap 
McMurtry,  you  know,"  he  observed,  thoughtfully; 
"  I've  run  across  his  underground  trail  more  than  once. 
The  trouble  with  some  rapscallions  is  to  get  them  out 
in  the  open.  He's  cunning  enough  —  always  under- 
ground. And  if  he's  up  to  any  dirty  business  now,  he 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  165 

wouldn't  open  it  up  with  me  in  the  room.  I'd  give 
something  to  catch  him." 

Not  a  great  while  before  this  he  had  been  engaged  in 
a  lawsuit  in  which  a  vital  part  of  the  evidence  turned 
upon  a  manipulation  of  the  telephone.  That  was  what 
had  occurred  to  him  and  what  his  mind  was  running 
upon.  Being  of  an  alert,  inquiring  turn  of  mind  and 
knowing  something  about  the  mechanics  of  electrical 
communication,  he  had  informed  himself  exactly  how 
that  manipulation  of  the  telephone  had  been  effected. 

"  Of  course,  this  fellow  McMurtry  is  entitled  to  no 
consideration  at  all,",  he  remarked  to  Dinsmore. 
"  Anything  is  fair  with  him.  If  he's  up  to  anything 
dirty,  I'd  give  something  to  catch  him.  Suppose  we 
set  a  trap  for  him?  " 

The  two  men  therefore  had  gone  into  the  library, 
where  Winthrop  had  busied  himself  with  the  telephone 
for  some  minutes  —  expertly  explaining  to  Dinsmore 
as  he  worked.  They  then  went  up  stairs  to  the  room 
known  as  Dinsmore's  den  where  there  was  some  further 
business  with  the  telephone  and  incidental  conversation. 
But  Dinsmore,  in  the  security  of  his  own  house,  hadn't 
troubled  to  close  the  door  to  the  den,  and  restless,  peer- 
ing Jenny  Dupee  had  seen  them  in  there  —  gliding  as 
near  to  the  door  and  tarrying  as  long,  with  straining 
ears,  as  she  dared.  Then  she  had  seen  Mr.  Dinsmore 
go  down  stairs  while  Mr.  Winthrop  remained  at  the 
desk  in  the  den  with  the  telephone  to  his  ear,  and  she 
had  heard  him  say  into  the  telephone : 

"  Yes,  I  hear  perfectly.     Are  you  sitting  at  the  table 


166  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

now?  .  .  .  Walk  away  a  little,  facing  the  table,  and 
say  something  —  see  if  I  can  hear  you  that  way.  .  .  . 
Yes,  I  hear  you.  That's  fine.  We'll  catch  him.  Fix 
the  chair  so  he'll  be  sitting  near  the  table,  facing  the 
'phone.  Never  mind  me  now.  Just  wait  for  him.  I'll 
be  listening." 

From  all  of  which  Jenny  correctly  deduced  that  Mr. 
Dinsmore  was  going  to  receive  a  caller  in  the  library 
and  Mr.  Winthrop,  upstairs  in  the  den,  was  to  overhear 
what  was  said.  That  was  immensely  exciting,  calling 
up  visions  of  the  mysterious  negro,  bundles  of  money  — 
leading  on  into  the  great  secret. 

At  any  rate,  she  could  try  for  a  sight  of  this  caller. 
All  palpitant  and  aquiver,  she  fled  down  stairs  and 
slipped  into  the  parlour  adjoining  the  library,  where 
her  flitting  presence,  if  detected,  need  arouse  no  sus- 
picion. The  parlour  was  lighted  and  empty.  The 
library  door  stood  open  —  also  lighted  and  empty,  as 
a  swift  glance  assured  her.  She  glided  back  into  the 
hall.  Mr.  Dinsmore,  his  wife  and  daughter,  were  in 
the  living  room.  Nobody  else  was  in  sight.  Tempta- 
tion beckoned  to  her  —  or,  rather,  picked  her  up  bodily, 
swept  her  back  into  the  library,  threw  her  on  the  floor 
and  rolled  her  under  the  couch,  her  heart  in  her  throat, 
her  lips  parted,  the  blood  pounding  in  her  ears. 

That  was  how  Jenny  Dupee  came  to  witness  the  meet- 
ing between  Mr.  Dinsmore  and  Lawrence  McMurtry. 

McMurtry's  real  purpose  had  never  in  the  remotest 
way  suggested  itself  to  Dinsmore.  His  mind  had  been 
running  on  J.  Wesley  Tully  and  the  libel  suit.  The 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  167 

monthly  payment  to  the  negro,  Pomeroy,  had  long  since 
become  a  matter  of  routine,  which  hardly  ever  visited 
his  thoughts  except  when  the  pay  day  came  around. 
One  may  become  habituated  to  almost  anything  and 
accept  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  would  as  soon  have 
expected  the  man  in  the  moon  to  step  in  with  a  recital 
of  that  old  affair  as  to  hear  it  from  Lawrence  Mc- 
Murtry.  The  shock  drove  all  his  preconceptions  of 
the  meeting  completely  out  of  his  head  —  and  Lowell 
Winthrop  with  them. 

When  McMurtry  left  the  house,  Dinsmore  was  in- 
tensely absorbed  with  an  immediate  and  exigent  prob- 
lem. The  existence  of  such  a  being  as  Lowell  Winthrop 
was  as  far  from  his  thought  as  though  he  had  never 
heard  the  name.  In  his  deep  preoccupation  the  fact 
that  such  a  being  was  up  stairs  in  his  den  sitting  at  the 
other  end  of  an  open  telephone  circuit,  never  occurred 
to  him. 

Sometime  after  the  telephone  had  ceased  to  give  any 
sound  —  some  minutes,  in  fact,  after  Lowell  Winthrop 
had  hung  up  the  receiver  and  mechanically  lighted  a 
cigarette  —  he  heard  some  one  enter  the  adjoining  room 
and  stir  about  there.  As  the  adjoining  room  was  Dins- 
more's  bedroom,  he  supposed  the  person  was  Dinsmore 
and  waited,  his  brows  contracted.  Then  the  slight 
sounds  in  that  room,  as  of  some  one  stirring  about, 
quite  ceased  and  for  half  an  hour  Winthrop  heard  noth- 
ing at  all. 

He  was  in  an  excessively  awkward  position.  At  the 
end  of  that  half  hour  he  con-eluded  that  no  obligation 


168  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

required  him  to  wait  longer  for  Dinsmore,  so  he  made 
his  own  way  out  of  the  house  and  home  —  his  mind  en- 
gaged with  highly  disagreeable  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  VII 

PURCELL  that  evening  noted  that  it  was  ten  min- 
utes to  eleven  when  Morden  telephoned  him.  He 
left  the  newspaper  office  at  once  and  walked  down  to 
Quincy  Street  where  he  turned  in  beneath  the  red 
electric  sign  of  the  Four  Aces  Cafe.  He  took  the  side 
entrance,  which  gave  -to  narrow  stairs,  carpeted  in 
bright  red,  that  led  to  a  series  of  small  private  dining 
rooms  on  the  second  floor.  There  was  no  watchman 
at  this  side  entrance ;  the  Four  Aces  suggested  no  such 
restrictions  upon  its  catholic  hospitality.  But  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs  a  young  man  in  a  dinner  coat,  with 
the  shoulders  of  a  prize  fighter  and  a  combative  jaw, 
lounged  at  ease  on  a  red  settee.  This  young  man's 
standards  of  deportment  could  not  be  considered  un- 
reasonably strict;  but  it  was  well  for  patrons  of  the 
Four  Aces  to  conform  to  such  standards  as  he  set  — 
as  by  refraining  from  breaking  the  furniture  or  making 
an  undue  racket  and  most  particularly  by  paying  the 
bill  promptly.  Otherwise  they  might  suddenly  find 
themselves  on  their  heads  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

As  Purcell  ascended  the  red  stairs  alone  the  young 
man  eyed  him  in  an  openly  questioning  manner  and 
arose  negligently  but  quite  ready  for  action. 

"  Mr.  Morden?  "  Purcell  asked  of  him. 

"  Number  seven,"  said  the  young  man  and  resumed 
his  lounging  attitude  on  the  settee. 

The   offices   of  the  Morden  Detective  Agency  were 

169 


170  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

over  on  Adams  Street,  and  conferences  might  be  held 
there ;  but  as  the  head  of  the  agency  followed  the  sound 
policy  of  not  letting  his  underlings  know  more  than 
was  necessary  of  his  affairs  and  of  not  unnecessarily 
exciting  their  curiosity,  he  preferred  to  hold  his  most 
significant  conferences  elsewhere,  and  he  favoured  the 
Four  Aces  because  he  had  a  very  special  claim  upon 
the  consideration  of  its  proprietor. 

Purcell  tapped  on  the  door  of  number  seven.  Mor- 
den's  voice  answered  from  within.  The  managing  editor 
entered  the  small  room,  furnished  with  a  dining  table, 
four  chairs  and  a  little  sideboard,  and  was  disagreeably 
surprised  at  seeing  not  only  the  detective  but  Mc- 
Murtry  sitting  at  the  table  and  smiling  genially  up  at 
him. 

Purcell  realized,  unhappily,  that  he  was  at  a  dis- 
advantage in  this  adventure.  He  was  not  as  free  to 
command  his  movements  as  his  two  fellow-adventurers 
•were.  Naturally  they  would  be  meeting  and  talking 
over  the  joint  business  more  or  less  in  his  absence. 
And  in  the  nature  of  the  case  the  affair  had  passed  a 
good  deal  out  of  his  hands  into  theirs.  He  was  obliged 
to  trust  them,  and  he  didn't  exactly. 

He  had  been  decidedly  nervous  and  distrait  that 
evening.  It  was  the  evening  of  the  great  strike  and 
he  had  to  stay  in  the  newspaper  office,  going  on  with  his 
work,  until  he  got  word  that  McMurtry  had  returned 
from  Highlands  and  was  ready  to  report.  The  word 
came  from  Morden  —  a  simple  invitation  to  meet  the 
detective  at  the  Four  Aces  immediately.  He  supposed 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  171 

that  McMurtry  had  telephoned  to  Morden  on  the  way 
down  from  Highlands  and  would  join  them  there.  But 
McMurtry  was  already  there.  He  and  Morden  had  no 
doubt  been  talking  for  some  little  time  —  which  sus- 
picious Purcell  didn't  like. 

"  Well,  Charley,  we've  got  him  hooked,"  said  the 
lawyer,  beaming,  as  soon  as  Purcell  was  seated.  "  I'm 
sure  of  it.  But  he  fights  hard.  He  won't  believe  —  or 
he  pretends  he  won't  believe  —  that  we've  found  Dr. 
Dill  and  have  him  here.  I  had  a  long  confab  with  him 
—  half  or  three  quarters  of  an  hour.  He  knows  in  his 
bones  that  we've  got  him  hooked ;  but  he  fights  the  gaff 
like  the  devil.  Of  course,  we've  got  to  give  him  some 
line.  He  can't  get  away.  I  told  him  to  take  a  week 
to  think  it  over  if  he  wanted  to.  I  don't  want  him  to 
get  the  idea  that  there's  the  least  doubt  about  it  in  my 
mind.  I'll  give  him  a  week.  Then  I'll  lead  him  up  to 
Dr.  Dill  and  we'll  have  a  show  down.  It's  sure.  We've 
got  him  hooked.  He  can't  get  away.  That's  the  way 
the  thing  stands." 

McMurtry  made  the  assurance  blandly,  as  though 
he  were  completely  satisfied  with  the  situation  and  every 
other  reasonable  man  must  be.  But  Purcell  swallowed 
and  the  heaviness  of  disappointment  pulled  at  his  heart. 
He'd  thought  they  were  going  to  divide  up  about  a 
quarter  of  a  million  dollars  that  evening.  And  he  no- 
ticed, with  pain,  that  Morden,  usually  so  truculent  and 
impatient  of  any  delay,  accepted  this  statement  calmly, 
his  aggressive  eyes  boring  at  the  managing  editor's 
face. 


172  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Maybe  it  occurred  to  Morden  that  Purcell  noticed  he 
wasn't  quite  acting  in  character  for  the  detective  glow- 
ered somewhat  and  growled:  "I'd  have  jumped  him 
right  then  —  give  him  three  minutes  to  come  across  or 
go  to  hell.  But  we've  got  to  trust  it  to  Mac  —  for 
the  present.  The  crab  can't  get  away." 

So  the  managing  editor  was  obliged  to  leave  it ;  and 
after  a  little  further  talk  he  returned  to  the  newspaper 
office,  but  with  an  uneasy  mind.  There  the  night's 
work  went  on  like  any  other  night's  work  until  he 
took  a  lonely  night  trolley  car  to  his  hotel  on  the  North 
Side.  Next  morning  he  went  down  to  work  as  usual. 

Usually  he  got  down  to  the  Leader  office  about  eleven 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  the  first  thing  he  did  was 
to  glance  over  the  early  editions  of  the  evening  papers 
—  dated  several  hours  ahead.  These  early  editions 
were  starvling  creatures,  appearing  in  the  barren  in- 
terval after  the  last  editions  of  the  morning  'papers  had 
cleaned  up  the  night's  news  and  before  the  day's  news 
had  begun  to  develop  much.  A  comparatively  trivial 
happening  could  get  a  big  headline  in  them. 

So  when  Purcell,  picking  up  the  first  of  those  on  his 
desk,  saw  "  Murder !  "  in  big  black  letters,  he  presumed 
it  referred  to  an  event  which  would  be  dismissed  with 
a  couple  of  stickfuls  on  an  inside  page  in  later  editions. 
From  a  professional  point  of  view  his  surmise  was  cor- 
rect enough;  but  there  was  a  personal  interest  which 
brought  him  up  with  a  shock  as  though  he  had  touched 
a  heavily  charged  live  wire. 

The  dozen   lines   of  triple-leaded   text   beneath   the 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  173 

headings  said  that  an  aged  negro  named  William  Pome- 
roy  had  been  murdered  with  a  knife  in  the  area  behind 
his  lodging  on  South  State  Street  some  time  in  the 
night. 

The  managing  editor  reached  for  the  telephone  and 
got  McMurtry's  office.  When  the  lawyer's  voice  an- 
swered, he  said,  "  Have  you  seen  the  news,  Mac  ?  " 

"  What  news  ?  "  McMurtry  replied. 

"  I'll  read  it  to  you,"  said  Purcell  and  thereupon 
read  the  dozen  lines  of  text.  "  I  think  I  best  come 
right  over  there,"  he  added.  But  before  leaving  his 
desk  he  unlocked  a  drawer  and  took  out  the  folded 
sheets  of  shorthand  notes  which  he  had  made  when 
Pomeroy's  story  was  fresh  in  his  mind. 

When  he  was  shown  into  McMurtry's  private  office 
the  lawyer  had  already  sent  down  to  the  lobby  of  the 
building  for  editions  of  the  evening  papers.  The  ac- 
count in  each  of  them  was  substantially  the  same  — 
evidently  a  manifolded  police  report.  The  lawyer  was 
in  a  disturbed  state,  as  his  contracted  brows  and  per- 
plexed manner  showed. 

"  I  telephoned  Jake,"  he  said  at  once.  "  He  hadn't 
heard  of  it.  He's  going  around  to  the  place  and  to 
the  police  to  pick  up  what  he  can  on  the  fly.  Then 
he'll  come  over  here  and  report." 

"  The  police  won't  pay  much  attention  to  it  unless 
something  else  develops,"  Purcell  commented.  "  Nor 
the  newspapers  either." 

The  murder  of  an  obscure  old  negro,  in  an  obscure 
lodging  house  or  hotel  patronized  by  single  men  of 


174  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

his  race,  in  a  locality  of  the  extremest  social  obscurity, 
would  naturally  make  only  the  smallest  of  splashes  in 
the  flow  of  the  day's  news  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe. 
Newspaper  treatment  of  such  an  incident  is  as  sure  an 
index  of  population  as  the  Federal  Census.  In  a  vil- 
lage it  would  amount  to  a  great  sensation.  In  a  metro- 
polis it  would  pass  almost  unnoticed. 

"  I  hope  they  won't,"  McMurtry  replied,  frowning. 
"  The  less  attention  the  police  and  the  newspapers  pay 
to  it,  the  better." 

The  two  men  were  silent  for  a  long  moment,  but  their 
thoughts  were  very  busy.  Then  Purcell  asked,  "  When 
did  you  leave  him?  "  There  was  no  need  of  explaining 
to  whom  the  pronoun  referred. 

"  I  noticed  the  time  when  I  got  out  of  my  car  to  go 
to  the  house,"  McMurtry  replied.  "  It  wasn't  quite  a 
quarter  of  nine.  I  didn't  look  when  I  left  the  house, 
but  I'm  sure  it  was  about  half  past  nine.  It's  just 
about  an  hour's  run  up  there  and  I  got  down  town  here 
about  half  past  ten." 

He  was  absorbed  with  the  problem  in  hand,  but 
Purcell  reflected  that  as  Morden  had  telephoned  him  at 
ten  minutes  of  eleven  they  would  have  had  ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  together  before  he  joined  them  at  the  Four 
Aces. 

"  About  half  past  nine,"  the  managing  editor  re- 
peated. "  There's  no  indication  of  time  there  " —  he 
nodded  toward  the  newspapers  on  the  table  — "  but  ap- 
parently it  wasn't  discovered  until  well  into  the  morn- 
ing." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  175 

"  Plenty  of  time,"  McMurtry  observed,  with  a  grat- 
ing laugh  —  meaning,  as  Purcell  understood,  that  from 
half  past  nine  to  morning  was  plenty  of  time  to  commit 
a  simple  murder. 

"  It  was  done  with  a  knife,"  said  Purcell.  "  Here's 
what  Pomeroy  said  about  that.  I  brought  it  along. 
I  told  you,  you  know,  that  I  wrote  it  down." 

As  he  spoke  he  took  the  sheets  of  notes  from  his  pocket 
and  began  leafing  them  over.  The  notes,  in  fact,  were 
made  in  a  sort  of  degenerate  shorthand  that  no  one  but 
himself  could  understand.  "  Here  it  is,"  he  said  and 
began  translating  the  notes,  "  Dinsmore  a  bad  man ; 
Pomeroy  afraid  of  him.  Says  he  killed  John  Colby; 
poisoned  him;  Colby  died  suddenly  after  visit  to  Dins- 
more.  Dinsmore  carries  a  big  knife  —  four  or  five 
inches  —  touch  a  spring  in  the  handle  and  the  blade 
flops  out."  He  looked  from  the  note  book  to  Mc- 
Murtry. "  He  held  his  hands  four  or  five  inches 
apart  to  indicate  how  long  the  knife  was.  I  remem- 
ber seeing  a  knife  like  that  —  the  blade  folded  into 
the  handle,  you  know,  so  it  can  be  carried  in  the 
pocket.  The  blade  comes  open  when  you  touch  a 
spring." 

McMurtry  mused  over  it.  "  Curious,"  he  com- 
mented absently.  "  I  always  thought  that  part  of  the 
story  about  Dinsmore  killing  Colby  and  having  a  big 
knife  was  all  bunk.  Curious !  " 

"  I  should  say  so !  "  Purcell  exclaimed.  "  Great 
Scot!  .  .  .  To  say  Alfred  Dinsmore  went  down  there 
and  killed  that  old  coon  with  a  spring  knife  sounds  the 


176  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

craziest    thing    ever    said.  .  .  .  But    somebody    killed 
him." 

"  Somebody  did,"  the  lawyer  repeated,  musing. 

So  amazing  was  it,  that  a  new  idea  occurred  to 
Purcell.  "  I  believe  I'll  go  over  and  have  a  look  at 
him  —  to  make  sure  it's  the  same  man,"  he  said. 

"  Well,  that  would  be  a  good  idea,"  McMurtry  re- 
plied, thoughtfully.  "  We  can't  be  too  sure  of  any- 
thing —  in  this  queer  case.  It  would  be  a  good  idea." 

Aside  from  its  being  a  good  idea,  he  was  very  willing 
to  get  rid  of  his  friend  and  accomplice  just  then  for 
he  was  expecting  Morden  any  minute. 

The  lawyer  *was  almost  more  deeply  puzzled  than 
Purcell.  But  for  one  circumstance 'he  would  have  im- 
mediately adopted  a  theory  that  Dinsmore  had  killed 
William  Pomeroy  —  adopted  it  provisionally,  of  course, 
and  depending  on  what  evidence  as  to  the  killing  might 
turn  up;  yet  his  mind  would  have  turned  promptly  in 
that  direction.  The  arresting  circumstance  was  one 
that  he  had  no  notion  of  imparting  to  Purcell  —  namely, 
at  a  quarter  of  ten  that  morning  a  messenger  had 
brought  him  a  sealed  envelope  which  contained  the  Dins- 
more  Company's  check  for  seventy-five  thousand  dol- 
lars, and  the  check  was  then  in  his  inner  coat  pocket/ 
Natuually  he  wouldn't  tell  Purcell  that,  having  told 
him  the  night  before  that  Dinsmore  was  to  pay  nothing 
then.  That  circumstance  didn't  really  forbid  the 
theory  to  which  he  would  have  turned  without  it;  but 
the  only  motive  in  killing  Pomeroy  would  have  been  to 
remove  a  witness,  and  why  should  a  man  remove  a  wit- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  177 

ness  by  such  hazardous  means  and  at  the  same  time  pay 
seventy-five  thousand  dollars  of  good  money  for  the 
witness'  silence?  It  was  puzzling. 

He  had  time  to  puzzle  over  it,  for  nearly  an  hour 
elapsed  before  Morden  appeared  —  also  puzzled.  He 
had  been  to  the  scene  of  the  murder,  and  he  had  found 
what  the  police  knew  about  it.  He  had  found  also  that 
the  police  were  not  particularly  exerting  themselves  to 
learn  more  about  it  —  for  it  was  a  shabby,  run-of-mill 
back  page  affair  anyhow. 

Elbridge's  Hotel  on  South  State  Street,  he  found, 
occupied  the  three  upper  floors  of  a  dingy  old  brick 
building  whose  ground  floor  was  occupied  by  a  pawn 
shop.  The  hotel  sign  over  the  stair  door  conveyed  the 
information  that  rooms  were  to  be  had  for  thirty-five 
and  fifty  cents  a  day.  The  establishment  just  missed 
being  a  lodging  house  for  impecunious  guests.  There 
was  no  elevator  and  except  for  a  small  hotel  office  and 
forlorn  little  parlour  on  the  second  floor  the  premises 
were  devoted  to  sleeping  rooms.  William  Pomeroy  oc- 
cupied one  of  the  best  rooms,  at  fifty  cents  a  day,  at 
the  front  of  the  third  story,  and  had  occupied  it  for 
two  years  or  more. 

The  benevolent  theory  of  the  establishment  was  that 
the  guests  knew  enough  to  take  care  of  themselves. 
Beyond  collecting  the  room  rent,  the  management  paid 
precious  little  attention  to  them  and  they  paid  precious 
little  attention  to  one  another.  Mostly,  in  fact,  they 
were  transients.  So  although  Pomeroy  had  been  a 
guest  of  long  standing,  nobody  about  the  place  knew 


178  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

anything  in  particular  of  him  or  his  habits  and  associa- 
tions. Management's  knowledge  hardly  went  beyond 
the  bare  facts  that  he  was  prompt  pay,  quiet  and  no 
booze  fighter. 

Entering  the  stair  door  from  South  State  Street  one 
finds  himself  in  a  dim  hall,  about  seven  feet  wide,  that 
runs  through  to  the  rear  door  and  from  which  the 
stairs  arise.  The  rear  door  opens  to  a  back  lot  per- 
haps twenty  feet  deep  by  thirty  wide  which  is  dismally 
-littered  with  cinders,  some  broken  boards,  some  rusty 
"tin  cans  and  other  unsightly  refuse.  Beyond  this  dis- 
mal back  lot  runs  an  alley.  Only  the  feeblest  illumina- 
tion reaches  this  forlorn  little  back  lot  at  night.  Its 
condition  then  is  one  of  dimmest  twilight,  with  heavy 
shadows. 

It  was  in  this  back  lot  that  William  Pomeroy's  body 
had  been  found.  He  had  been  stabbed  in  the  neck  — 
twice,  the  police  surgeon  thought  —  with  a  big  knife, 
and  must  have  died  almost  immediately.  Beside  the 
body  lay  a  cheap,  worn  suit  case  packed  as  though  for 
a  journey.  Evidently  he  had  been  up  to  his  room, 
packed  his  suit  case,  and  left  by  the  back  door.  A 
coloured  porter  and  man  of  all  work  around  the  hotel 
told  the  police  that  he  locked  the  back  door  at  eleven 
o'clock  in  conformity  with  an  old  rule  of  the  manage- 
ment. But  the  police  doubted  it.  Their  cursory  in- 
quiry led  them  to  believe  that,  in  fact,  both  back  and 
front  doors  commonly  stood  unlocked  all  night  and  the 
porter  said  he  locked  it  merely  to  save  himself  from 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  179 

reproach.     Indeed,  it  took  him  some  time  to  find  the 
key. 

So  far  as  the  police  —  and  Morden  —  had  been  able 
to  learn,  nobody  had  seen  Pomeroy  enter  the  hotel  or 
leave  it,  and  of  course  no  one  had  seen  any  other  person 
in  his  company.  But  a  guest  who  occupied  the  room 
adjoining  Pomeroy 's  gave  testimony  of  importance. 
He  said  that  some  time  in  the  night  he  had  been  waked 
up  by  the  sound  of  voices  in  Pomeroy's  room  —  or, 
rather,  by  a  voice.  He  was  very  sure  it  was  Pomeroy's 
voice.  He  had  passed  the  time  of  day  with  Pomeroy 

—  engaged  in  incidental   conversation  with  him  —  on 
several  occasions,   and  so  knew  his  voice.     He  didn't 
speak  with  a  negro  accent,  or  a  southern  accent,  but 
with  a  kind  of  mellow  drawl.     The  guest  was  very  sure 
it  was  Pomeroy's  voice  he  had  heard  in  the  night  — 
raised,  speaking  loudly.     In  fact,  he  woke  up  with  the 
idea  that  a  quarrel  was  going  forward  in  the  next  room 
on  account  of  the  pitch  of  the  voice.     But  as  he  lis- 
tened, it  seemed,  rather,  that  Pomeroy  was   speaking 
to  a  deaf  man  —  and  raising  his  voice  on  that  account 
rather  than  in  anger. 

Either  that  idea  had  contented  him,  or  the  talking 
had  ceased  —  the  guest  wasn't  sure  which.  At  any 
rate  he  had  fallen  asleep  again  and  heard  nothing  fur- 
ther. And  unfortunately  he  could  recall  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  talk  he  had  overheard  nor  could  he  give  any 
idea  of  the  time.  This  guest  —  the  police  concluded 

—  could  not  claim  Pomeroy's  merit  of  sobriety.     They 


180  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

thought  he  had  gone  to  sleep  early  in  the  evening  the 
worse  for  liquor  and  that  his  brain,  while  sufficiently 
acute  to  note  the  loud  voice  in  the  next  room,  had  been 
still  rather  foggy.  But  if  the  conversation  had  been 
of  a  menacing,  or  alarming  kind,  the  foggy  guest  would 
probably  have  remembered  it. 

Quite  certainly  somebody  had  gone  up  to  Pomeroy's 
room  with  him.  Pomeroy  had  there  packed  his  suit 
case  and  left  by  the  back  door  —  presumably  accom- 
panied by  this  somebody.  At  the  back  door,  or  not  far 
from  it,  he  had  been  killed. 

"  That's  all  the  police  know,"  Morden  concluded ; 
"  and  probably  all  they  will  know.  They're  not  excit- 
ing themselves  about  it." 

The  lawyer  mused  over  it  and  commented,  "  Of 
course,  Dinsmore's  not  deaf." 

"  No,"  the  detective  growled,  "  but  that  fellow  was 
stewed.  You  can't  bank  very  much  on  his  impres- 
sions." He  glowered  over  it  a  moment  and  observed, 
"  It's  a  queer  case."  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch  and 
said,  "  It's  noon  now.  Has  he  come  across  ?  " 

For  in  telling  the  detective  that  Dinsmore  had  prom- 
ised to  send  a  check  that  morning,  McMurtry  had  fixed 
the  hour  for  its  delivery  at  noon,  instead  of  ten  o'clock. 
One  motive  for  that  falsehood  had  been  that  he  pru- 
dently preferred  to  keep  the  details  to  himself.  Just 
what  form  the  check  was  in  would  be  one  of  the  minor 
points  of  the  game.  McMurtry  preferred  that  Morden 
should  not  be  present  when  the  check  was  delivered  — 
a  prudent  man,  he  meant  to  overlook  none  of  the  minor 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  181 

points.  And  having  lied  to  his  friend  from  that  motive 
he  might  as  well  say  that  the  check  was  to  be  for  only 
fifty  thousand  dollars  instead  of  seventy-five  —  which 
he  had  done. 

Now  he  answered  his  friend  and  partner  smoothly, 
"  Not  a  peep  yet.  But  he'll  come  across." 

That  was  a  minor  point  now,  with  this  astonishing 
new  development  of  the  murder  on  their  hands.  So 
Morden  merely  glowered  and  said  abruptly,  "  I'm  going 
back  to  my  office.  I  want  to  look  over  Jenny  Dupee's 
reports.  When  Pomeroy  went  up  to  the  house  there 
to  get  his  money  she  said  Dinsmore  mentioned  some  other 
man  to  him  —  asked  him  how  somebody  was  getting 
along  or  something  like  that.  My  recollection  is  she 
gave  this  other  man's  name.  I  want  to  look  that  up. 
May  be  there's  something  in  it  for  us." 

He  went  back  to  his  office  therefore  and  was  pres- 
ently looking  over  the  reports  written  by  Jenny  Dupee 
on  Miss  Dinsmore's  fine  note  paper,  with  eccentric 
spelling.  The  collection  had  grown  quite  bulky  by 
that  time,  fairly  filling  the  big  brown  envelope,  for 
Jenny  worked  at  her  job  with  exemplary  diligence. 
Nearly  every  day  she  had  something  or  other  to  report. 
Most  of  the  sheets  in  fact  contained  matter  amusingly 
irrelevant,  even  to  mentioning  what  the  family  had  for 
luncheon  when  there  was  nothing  else  to  report.  They 
gave  the  impression  of  an  employe  anxious  to  prove 
that  she  was  earning  her  pay. 

Running  through  them  Morden  came  to  the  one  which 
described  Pomeroy's  visit  to  the  house,  as  Jenny  gath- 


182  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

ered  the  facts  from  her  position  under  the  lounge.  The 
detective  read: 

"  Mr.  D  said  how  is  Collins.  The  collared  man  said 
he  is  fine,  going  every  evening  to  the  Cristofer  Columbus 
sochal  club." 

Morden  read  it  with  a  dark  grin  of  approval  and 
thought,  appreciatively,  "  Great  little  sleuth  is  that 
same  Jenny  Dupee." 

He  seemed  vaguely  to  remember  having  heard  of  a 
Christopher  Columbus  Social  Club.  The  city  contained 
scores  of  modest  little  gatherings  which  found  it  ad- 
visable to  organize  as  clubs,  or  at  least  to  call  them- 
selves clubs  —  as  that  would  be  some  defence  if  the 
police  should  ever  happen  to  call  them  gambling  joints 
or  boozing  joints.  He  set  out  therefore  to  get  informa- 
tion regarding  this  particular  organization.  Most 
likely  it  would  be  down  town,  in  the  First  Ward,  so  he 
directed  his  inquiries  to  that  field. 

Sometimes  he  was  at  odds  with  the  official  police,  yet 
there  was  a  sort  of  free-masonry  and  he  had  some  good 
old  friends  in  the  official  organization.  It  was  to  the 
police  therefore  that  he  went  —  or,  specifically  to  his 
old  friend  Sergeant  Laverty  from  whom  he  learned 
that  the  Christopher  Columbus  Social  Club  occupied 
three  rooms  in  the  rear  over  the  Oasis  Saloon  on  Har- 
rison Street  and  one  Conny  Conley  presided  over  it. 
If  it  hadn't  been  a  club,  Conny  Conley  would  have  been 
the  keeper  of  a  gambling  house ;  but  the  club  was  a  quiet 
sort  of  place  that  had  never  brought  itself  into  dis- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  183 

favour  with  the  authorities.  Every  such  place  is  of  a 
retiring  disposition,  however,  cool  and  reticent  to 
strangers,  so  Morden  invited  his  old  friend  Sergeant 
Laverty  to  accompany  him  there  and  vouch  for  his 
friendly  intentions.  The  Sergeant  good  naturedly 
complied. 

It  was  about  half  past  one  when,  having  climbed  the 
stairs  at  the  side  of  the  Oasis  Saloon,  Sergeant  Laverty 
knocked  at  a  plain,  solid  door  in  the  dim  second-story 
hall.  Soon  the  door  opened  about  two  inches  —  the 
length  of  a  stout  chain  that  fastened  it  on  the  inside, 
and  a  shiny  eye  set  in  an  almost  coal  black  face  peered 
out.  Seeing  Officer  Laverty  the  eye  lighted  in  friendly 
fashion  and  some  white  teeth  disclosed  themselves.  The* 
guardian  promptly  undid  the  chain  and  admitted  them, 
saying,  in  reply  to  the  Sergeant's  question: 
"  Yassir,  Mr.  Conley's  here ;  next  room." 
At  that  hour  the  clubrooms  were  quite  deserted  save 
for  the  manager  and  the  negro  guardian.  They  showed 
none  of  the  luxury  traditionally  associated  with  city 
gaming  establishments,  but  were  meagrely  furnished, 
with  matting  on  the  floor,  plain  wooden  chairs  that 
showed  much  use,  some  tables  covered  with  soiled  green 
baize  and  a  battered  side  board.  Mr.  Conley  also  had 
a  soiled,  better-days  appearance  —  being  a  fat  and 
flabby  man  well  along  in  middle  life  with  a  grave  air 
and  a  droopy,  sad-looking  yellowish  moustache.  A 
diamond  pin  glittered  in  his  tie,  but  the  tie  itself  had  a. 
second-hand  look.  He  accepted  Morden  on  Sergeant 


184  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Laverty's  introduction  and  recommendation  without  the 
least  reserve,  and  answered  his  questions  with  the  great- 
est frankness. 

There  was  no  habitue  of  the  establishment  by  the 
name  of  Collins.  He  was  positive  about  that.  Nobody 
of  that  name  had  ever  been  an  habitue  of  the  place.  It 
was  true  that  some  habitues  of  the  place  might  be 
known  in  some  quarters  by  names  different  from  those 
by  which  they  were  known  there;  but  Collins  struck  no 
responsive  echo  in  his  memory. 

"  Any  name  anything  like  that?  "  Morden  persisted. 

Mr.  Conley  cast  over  the  names  in  his  memory, 
thoughtfully  poking  a  finger  into  his  double  chin. 

"  Collingwood,"  he  suggested ;  "  old  Jim  Colling- 
wood.  That's  the  nearest  I  can  come  to  it." 

"Well,  what  about  Collingwood?"  Morden  asked. 

"  He's  an  old  scout  that  lives  at  Luke's  Hotel  — 
around  the  corner,  you  know.  He  comes  here  pretty 
near  every  evening  —  been  coming  three,  four  years. 
But  that's  about  all  I  know.  They  say  he's  well  heeled 
—  made  it  out  west  mining.  He  never  said  anything  to 
me  about  it.  I  never  talked  to  him  much.  The  old 
man's  deaf.  You  have  to  shout  to  him." 

Whatever  exultation  Morden  felt  at  that  statement 
was  duly  concealed.  He  merely  said,  "  Plenty  of 
money,  eh?  " 

"  Seems  to  have,"  Conley  replied.  "  He  drops  it 
here  all  right  —  no  big  wad,  you  know ;  but  he  gen- 
erally sloughs  off  some." 

"  Here  last  night  ?  "  Morden  asked. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  185 

Sergeant  Laverty  put  in,  "  We  want  to  get  this 
straight,  you  know,  Conny.  There's  nothing  on  you, 
but  Jake  and  I  have  got  a  hen  on." 

The  policeman's  interest  in  the  affair  was  not  alto- 
gether altruistic.  His  old  friend  Morden  had  told  him 
that  if  the  affair  in  hand  came  out  satisfactorily  he 
should  be  suitably  remembered  in  the  distribution  of 
material  rewards.  So  long  as  there  was  nothing  on  him 
the  affair  was  nothing  at  all  to  Mr.  Conley.  Long  ex- 
perience had  hardened  him  to  other  people's  complica- 
tions with  the  police.  As  between  Collingwood  and  the 
police,  for  instance,  he  was  finely  neutral  except  as  his 
own  self-interest  strongly  inclined  him  to  oblige  Ser- 
geant Laverty.  After  an  instant's  search  of  his  mem- 
ory he  replied: 

"  Yes,  he  was  here  last  night.  He  went  out."  And, 
lifting  his  voice  a  little,  he  called,  "  Rose !  " 

The  big  and  very  black  negro  stepped  in  from  the 
next  room,  answering  the  call. 

"  Didn't  somebody  come  here  for  Mr.  Collingwood 
last  night?  "  Conley  asked. 

"  Yassir,"  the  guardian  answered  promptly.  "  Man 
come  up  to  the  door  and  asked  me  was  Mr.  Collingwood 
here  and  I  said  I  dunno.  He  felt  around  in  his  pockets 
and  then  he  said,  *  I  want  to  send  him  a  note  and  I  ain't 
got  nothing  to  write  on.  Get  me  pencil  and  piece  of 
paper.'  '  The  guardian  might  have  added  that  a  two 
dollar  bill  accompanied  the  request,  but  he  omitted  that. 
"  I  got  him  piece  of  paper  and  a  pencil  and  he  put  the 
paper  up  against  the  wall  and  wrote  on  it.  Then  he 


186  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

folded  it  over  and  give  it  to  me  and  says,  *  Hand  that 
to  Mr.  Collingwood.'  So  I  handed  it  to  him.  He  was 
playin'  at  that  table  right  over  there."  He  pointed  to 
it.  "  I  noticed  he  seemed  kind  of  uncertain,  like  he 
hadn't  made  up  his  mind,  when  he  read  it.  Then  he 
said,  *  Wait  a  minute,  boys,'  and  laid  down  his  cards 
right  in  the  middle  of  a  hand.  He  went  out  in  the  hall 
and  him  and  the  man  walked  down  the  hall  and  talked 
a  few  minutes.  I  left  the  door  open  so  he  could  come 
back,  you  see,  and  I  stood  there  waitin'  for  him.  Him 
and  the  man  talked  a  spell.  Then  Mr.  Collingwood 
come  back  in,  scowling  like,  and  went  back  to  the  table 
and  they  had  kind  of  a  little  row  about  his  quittin'  the 
game  that  way." 

"  I  noticed  that,"  Mr.  Conley  commented. 

"  Yassir ;  they  had  kind  of  little  row  among  them- 
selves, but  he  said  he'd  gotta  go  and  he  got  his  coat 
and  vest  off  the  hook  there  and  went  out.  The  man 
was  walkin'  up  and  down  in  the  hall  waitin'  for  him  and 
they  went  off  together." 

"  What  time  was  that  ?  "  Morden  asked. 

"  I  dunno  purcisely,"  the  guardian  replied  after  re- 
flecting. "  I  reckon  must  been  'long  about  eleven 
o'clock  —  pretty  early  in  the  evening  for  Mr.  Colling- 
wood to  leave." 

"  This  man  that  inquired  for  him  —  what  did  he  look 
like?  "  Morden  said. 

"  He  ain't  quite  as  tall  as  you ;  good  square  shoulders 
on  him;  probably  fifty  years  old  —  got  some  grey  in 
his  beard." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  187 

"  Was  it  a  long  beard?  " 

"  No,  sir;  cut  off  pretty  short  all  around;  'bout  down 
to  there."  He  held  his  hand  three  inches  below  his 
chin.  "  Got  mighty  sharp  eyes  —  look  right  at  you." 

"  How  was  he  dressed?  " 

"  Only  thing  I  noticed  much  was  his  hat,"  the  guard- 
ian replied.  "  That  was  sort  of  grey  and  white  checked 
hat,  with  sort  of  ribs  down  it  —  brim  curled  up.  He 
had  it  pulled  down  pretty  near  to  his  eyebrows." 

"  Would  you  call  him  well-dressed  ?  "  Morden  per- 
sisted. 

The  guardian  puzzled  over  that  a  moment,  trying  to 
remember,  and  answered,  "  No,  sir  —  kind  of  old  clothes 
the  way  I  recollect  it  —  just  kind  of  plain  old  clothes." 

"  What  kind  of  a  shirt  did  he  have  on?  " 

But  the  negro  could  not  recall  that.  Evidently,  ex- 
cept the  hat,  the  caller's  dress  had  not  impressed  him 
in  any  way,  either  for  elegance  or  shabbiness. 

"  That  was  the  last  you  saw  of  either  of  them  last 
night  ?  "  Morden  asked  finally. 

"  Yassir,  Mr.  Collingwood  didn't  come  back,"  said 
the  guardian. 

Morden  then  left  the  Christopher  Columbus  Social 
Club  with  a  lively  and  pleasant  commotion  in  his  mind. 
The  name  Collingwood  was  sufficiently  like  the  name 
Collins  to  found  a  hope  upon.  The  build  and  beard  of 
the  man  who  had  called  for  Collingwood  corresponded 
with  Dinsmore.  Apparently  the  caller  had  been 
roughly  or  indifferently  dressed ;  "  kind  of  old  clothes  " 
was  the  impression  left  on  the  guardian's  mind.  Alfred 


188  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Dinsmore  dressed  very  well,  in  a  strictly  conservative 
way.  Probably  his  garb  wouldn't  have  left  that  im- 
pression on  the  guardian,  unless  he  had  changed  his 
clothes  purposely.  Morden  thought  that  Alfred  Dins- 
more's  customary  clothes  would  probably  contain  a 
lead  pencil  anrl  some  bit  of  paper  —  say  the  back  of  an 
envelope  or  a  ^eaf  from  a  memorandum  book  —  on  which 
a  brief  note  could  be  written.  Usually  the  clothes  of  a 
business  man  did  contain  such  articles.  If  Dinsmore 
had  changed  his  clothes  for  the  purpose  of  this  visit, 
that  might  explain  his  having  to  borrow  pencil  and 
paper.  And  the  man  Collingwood  was  deaf.  The  de- 
tective seemed  to  feel  —  tentatively  —  the  pull  of  a 
great  fish  on  his  line. 

On  the  stairs,  leading  down  to  the  street,  he  trans- 
ferred a  twenty  dollar  bill  from  his  vest  pocket  to  the 
well  padded  palm  of  his  friend  the  detective  sergeant, 
remarking  genially,  "  It  goes  in  the  expense  account." 
And  he  gossiped  with  his  friend,  on  incidental  topics, 
as  they  walked  up  the  street  to  the  corner. 

Luke's  Hotel  stood  diagonally  across  from  them  — 
with  a  canopy  of  coloured  glass  supported  by  ponder- 
ously ornamented  cast  iron  pillars  over  its  door. 
Morden  was  aware  of  it.  He  thought  Sergeant 
Laverty  was  aware  of  it  also,  and  quite  willing  to 
pursue  their  joint  inquiry  further.  But  Morden  was 
not  minded  to  let  his  friend  any  further  into  the  affair 
at  that  time.  As  though  he'd  never  had  a  thought  of 
Luke's  Hotel  he  kept  on  up  the  street  gossiping  of  in- 
cidental matters,  and  presently  parted  from  his  friend, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  189 

with  a  cheerful  adieu  and  a  hand  shake.  He  caught  a 
cab  then  and  went  back  to  his  office. 

Entering  this  office  one  saw  a  shabby  room  divided 
in  halves  by  a  wooden  railing  with  a  gate  in  it.  There 
was  a  bench  in  front  of  the  railing  and  two  desks  be- 
hind it,  at  one  of  which  sat  a  sharp-nosed  young  man 
with  hair  that  looked  moth-eaten  because  of  a  thin 
patch  on  one  side.  At  the  other  side  of  the  room  a 
door  with  a  ground  glass  panel  gave  to  a  short  and 
narrow  hall  from  which  two  small  dens  opened.  Such 
was  the  establishment  whose  furnishings  all  told  might 
possibly  have  brought  a  hundred  dollars  at  auction. 
Morden  often  remarked,  with  satisfaction,  that  his  busi- 
ness was  conducted  under  his  own  hat.  He  said  noth- 
ing to  the  sharp-nosed  young  man  at  the  desk  and  on 
stepping  through  into  the  tiny  hall  he  found  that  this 
young  man  was  the  only  occupant  of  the  office,  for 
Tanner's  little  den  on  the  right  —  opposite  to  his  den 
on  the  left  —  was  empty.  Three  letters  lay  on  his 
own  desk,  but  not  the  one  he  wanted. 

Jenny  Dupee's  diligent  reports  were  directed  to 
Martha  Woods,  Room  641,  Rosser  Building,  Adams 
Street  —  which  was  the  address  of  the  detective  agency 
—  and  were  there  laid  on  his  desk.  Jenny  dropped 
them  into  the  village  postoffice  at  Highlands,  or  into  a 
street  letter  box,  as  she  found  opportunity,  so  a  good 
many  hours  might  elapse  before  the  record  of  an  event 
which  she  judged  worthy  of  reporting  reached  Morden's 
desk.  If  she  had  noticed  anything  worth  reporting  the 
night  before,  it  might  be  next  morning  before  the  re- 


190  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

port  came  in.  At  any  rate  there  was  no  report  now, 
and  Morden  was  impatient. 

Playing,  as  nearly  as  possible,  a  lone  hand  sometimes 
involved  inconveniences.  This  was  one  of  the  times. 
There  was  a  person  named  Martha  Woods  —  so  named 
by  herself  long  after  she  had  reached  years  of  discre- 
tion. It  was  she  who  had  engaged  Jenny  Dupee  and 
given  her  the  address  to  which  reports  were  mailed. 
And  Jenny,  in  spite  of  her  shortcomings,  would  have 
been  shocked  if  she  had  known  that  her  reports,  which 
occasionally  mentioned  boudoir  details  of  a  feminine 
nature,  were  really  opened  by  a  very  coarse  male  per- 
son. 

Morden  was  impatient,  and  he  decided  to  set  in  mo- 
tion, through  Martha  Woods,  the  wires  that  would 
bring  him  face  to  face  with  Jenny  Dupee  as  promptly 
as  possible.  It  took  time  —  his  getting  in  touch  with 
Martha  Woods  and  her  getting  in  touch  with  Jenny 
via  the  telephone.  So  it  was  ten  minutes  past  five  that 
afternoon  when  a  stocky  man,  indifferently  dressed  and 
wearing  a  slouch  hat,  who  stood  on  the  southwest  corner 
of  Elm  and  Locust  Streets  in  Highlands  apparently 
contemplating  the  architecture  of  the  new  stucco  cot- 
tage across  the  street,  saw  a  slender  woman  in  a  dark 
dress  come  rapidly  from  the  direction  of  Sheridan  Road. 
The  slender  woman's  heart  beat  fast.  She  didn't  at 
all  like  this  business  of  meeting  a  strange  man  on  a 
street  corner  and  making  a  verbal  report  to  him. 

A  professional  might  have  told  her  that  verbal  state- 
ments are  much  safer  than  written  ones,  for  if  it  comes 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  191 

to  a  pinch  one  can  deny  what  one  has  merely  said,  but 
not  what  one  has  written  in  one's  own  hand.  Yet  that 
matter  of  writing  a  report  and  slipping  it  into  a  mail 
box  had  appeared  to  her  quite  snug  and  safe,  whereas 
this  affair  of  meeting  an  unknown  man  and  talking 
secrets  with  him  face  to  face  seemed  full  of  peril.  Be- 
sides, Jenny  was  by  no  means  in  the  habit  of  meeting 
strange  men,  on  street  corners  or  elsewhere.  That  was 
disquieting  to  her  sense  of  propriety. 

Possibly  even  the  extra  compensation  which  Martha 
Woods  hinted  at  in  the  guarded  talk  over  the  telephone 
would  have  failed  to  tempt  her  into  it;  but  in  the  last 
twenty-four  hours  the  enterprise  in  which  she  was  en- 
gaged had  assumed  gigantic  proportions.  Lying  un- 
der the  sofa  in  the  library  she  had  heard  the  gentleman 
who  called  on  Mr.  Dinsmore  talk  to  him  of  monstrous 
things ;  and  finally  of  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars  !  All  that  Jenny  had  imagined  before  was  petty 
in  comparison  with  the  amazing  prospects  that  now  un- 
folded. She  was  in  the  mood  to  make  a  bold  play  for 
a  great  stake.  So,  her  heart  beating  fast,  she  sped 
to  meet  the  stranger.  It  did  not  help  the  flutter  of 
her  nerves  as,  on  coming  nearer,  she  noticed  that  he 
looked  a  good  deal  like  a  very  large,  shaggy,  fighting 
dog. 

The  meeting  was  not  without  some  slight  interest  of 
a  purely  personal  nature  for  Morden.  Professionally 
he  approved  of  this  unknown  correspondent ;  and  he  was 
a  bit  disappointed  to  notice  that  she  was  thirty  five  at 
least,  of  an  angular  type  of  slimness,  sallow  and  with  a 


192  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

long,  thin  nose.  Romance  was  not  entirely  dead  in 
him.  However,  he  smiled  good-naturedly  as  she  came 
fluttering  up,  but  without  bothering  to  lift  his  hat,  and 
said: 

"  Just  walk  along  beside  me.  We  can  talk  as  we  move 
along."  At  the  same  time  he  fell  in  beside  her  and 
started  at  a  leisurely  gait  up  the  street. 

And  his  immediately  taking  the  matter  into  his  own 
hands  in  this  perfectly  cool,  assured  way,  composed 
Jenny  much  more  than  as  though  he  had  been  a  pat- 
tern of  politeness.  In  his  handling  of  it,  the  thing 
seemed  to  become  safe  and  even  matter-of-course. 

"  Mr.  Dinsmore  left  the  house  some  time  after  half 
past  nine  last  evening  and  went  down  town,"  said  Mor- 
den  as  though  he  were  repeating  a  circumstance  well 
known  to  both  of  them  —  for  he  had  judged  that  the 
best  method  of  attack. 

That  statement  not  only  surprised  Jenny  but  fur- 
ther eased  her  mind.  Evidently  this  remarkable  man 
knew  so  much  that  one  needn't  hesitate  to  tell  him 
more. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  He  was  gone  all  night.  I 
didn't  know  it  till  this  forenoon.  I  heard  it  from  the 
servants.  He  was  gone  all  night.  This  morning  he 
had  things  sent  down  to  his  office  —  a  suit  of  clothes 
and  shirt  and  collar.  One  of  the  men  took  them  down. 
I  heard  them  talking  about  it  this  forenoon.  Mr.  Dins- 
more  telephoned  about  half  past  seven  this  morning  — 
gave  orders  to  have  the  things  sent  down  to  his  of- 
fice." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  193 

"  Did  he  telephone  last  night  —  to  say  he  wasn't 
coming  home?  "  Morden  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "  I  didn't  hear  any- 
thing said  about  it." 

"  Hear  anything  about  when  he  left  the  house,  or 
what  clothes  he  was  wearing?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Jenny.  She  could  have  told  him  that 
it  was  after  half  past  nine,  because  she  knew  Mr.  Dins- 
more  was  in  the  library  with  a  strange  caller  until 
that  hour;  but  she  proposed  to  keep  all  that  to  her- 
self. 

"  Could  you  find  out  what  sort  of  hat  he  was  wearing 
when  he  went  down  town?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  Jenny  answered  doubtfully.  "  I 
might  be  able  to.  One  of  the  men  might  know." 

"  Well,  see  if  you  can  find  out,"  Morden  suggested. 
"  Did  you  ever  see  a  cloth  hat  with  black  and  grey 
checks  in  it  and  sort  of  ribbed,  with  a  brim  that  curls 
up?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.  "  He  has  a  hat  like  that.  I've 
seen  him  wear  it  in  the  grounds  when  it  was  rainy.  I 
think  it's  a  hat  he's  had  to  go  fishing." 

"  Well,  see  if  you  can  find  out  whether  he  wore  it  last 
night,"  said  Morden,  speaking  with  unusual  good  na- 
ture —  for  the  affair  was  developing  exactly  to  his 
taste.  He  turned  his  head,  looking  down  into  her  face 
with  his  aggressive  eyes,  and  demanded : 

"  Anything  in  particular  happen  at  the  house  last 
night?" 

Jenny's  nerves  gave  a  jump.     She  almost  thought  he 


194  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

was  going  to  say,  "  You  crawled  under  the  lounge  in  the 
library  and  listened." 

But  she  answered,  with  rather  panicky  promptness, 
"No,  sir." 

"  He  had  a  caller,"  Morden  persisted  —  for  it  was 
just  as  well  to  impress  Jenny  with  his  omniscience ;  "  a 
man  came  to  see  him  about  a  quarter  of  nine." 

With  a  gone  feeling  in  her  stomach,  Jenny  answered 
uncertainly,  "  Perhaps.  I  didn't  know  it.  I'm  not 
down  stairs  in  the  evening." 

Morden  didn't  doubt  that  she  was  telling  the  truth, 
and  did  not  blame  her  for  missing  the  caller;  in  a  big 
house,  she  couldn't  sec  everything.  Besides  she  had 
done  very  well  —  exceedingly  well.  He  had  no  fault 
to  find ;  and  with  another  good-natured  smile  he  parted 
from  her. 

Jenny  sped  homeward,  immensely  relieved  that  the 
meeting  was  so  quickly  and  safely  over  with.  Morden 
turned  in  the  opposite  direction  —  toward  the  incon- 
siderable business  section  of  Highlands  —  reflecting. 
Dinsmore  had  gone  down  town  and  spent  the  night  there. 
He  had  worn  clothes  that  he  wanted  to  change  before 
business  hours.  He  had  a  hat  such  as  the  guardian  at 
the  Christopher  Columbus  Social  Club  described.  All 
that  was  bully! 

Why  had  he  spent  the  night  down  town?  The  busi- 
ness he  was  engaged  in  must  have  kept  him  very  late  or 
he  would  have  come  home  and  changed  his  clothes  there. 
If  he  had  been  driven  down  in  an  automobile,  probably 
the  car  would  have  waited.  At  any  rate  the  servants 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  195 

would  very  likely  have  known  it  and  mentioned  it  in 
their  gossip  to  Jenny.  It  seemed  more  probable  to 
Morden  that  he  had  gone  down  on  the  train. 

The  detective  himself  had  come  up  there  by  train,  and 
he  walked  back  to  the  neat  suburban  railroad  station 
pondering.  He  believed  a  great  deal  in  luck  and 
hunches,  and  when  luck  was  coming  his  way  he  believed 
in  playing  it  strong.  Decidedly  luck  was  coming  his 
way  that  day.  Entering  the  railroad  station,  he 
studied  the  time  table  on  the  wall.  After  half  past 
eight  o'clock,  he  found,  trains  to  the  city  ran  at  in- 
tervals of  an  hour.  There  was  one  at  9:18  and  an- 
other 10 : 18.  McMurtry  had  left  Dinsmore's  house 
about  half  past  nine.  Ten  minutes  brisk  walking  would 
take  one  from  the  house  to  the  station.  A  man  in  a 
hurry  could  change  his  clothes  in  five  minutes.  Prob- 
ably it  would  have  been  the  10 : 18  train.  Probably 
that  train  would  have  the  same  conductor  tonight. 

Morden  decided  to  wait  and  see,  and  after  strolling 
about  found  a  little  restaurant  where  he  got  a  light, 
early  dinner  and  afterwards  strolled  back  to  the  sta- 
tion. He  had  decided  there  was  no  use  asking  anybody 
there,  for  the  ticket  agent  and  telegraph  operator  were 
shut  up  in  their  office  and  could  see  little  of  the  pas- 
sengers. There  was  a  baggage  room  in  the  south  end 
of  the  station  and  just  by  way  of  passing  the  time 
Morden  sauntered  down  there.  The  broad  door  was 
open  and  a  small  grey  man,  in  a  baggy  brown  coat  and 
an  official  blue  cap  a  couple  of  sizes  too  large  for  him, 
sat  on  a  trunk  inside,  contemplating  the  landscape. 


196  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

He  looked  like  a  friendly  little  man.  Morden  liked  that 
look  and  engaged  him  in  conversation  which  presently 
turned  on  his  length  of  service  and  hours  of  duty.  The 
man  said  he  had  been  there  twenty  years  and  was  on 
duty  until  the  10 :  18  train  pulled  out  for  the  city.  His 
talk  was  as  friendly  as  his  appearance,  so  Morden  took 
a  small  chance. 

That  is,  he  displayed  a  police  badge  —  contraband, 
yet  eff ective  oh  occasion  —  and  said  he  was  looking  for 
a  man  who,  he  thought,  took  the  10:18  train  to  the 
city  last  night.  Had  the  baggageman  noticed  a 
stranger  around  the  station  at  that  time  —  a  middle- 
aged  man  with  a  short  brown  beard,  partly  grey? 

No,  the  baggageman  hadn't.  He  recalled  that  half 
a  dozen  passengers  had  taken  the  train,  but  the  only 
strangers  were  two  ladies.  The  others,  so  far  as  he 
could  remember,  were  known  to  him  as  residents  of  the 
village.  There  had  been  Mr.  Gray, —  and  Mr.  Dins- 
more  had  taken  the  train ;  just  caught  it  by  the  skin  of 
his  teeth;  had  to  run  for  it  and  the  baggageman  had 
run  along  to  give  him  a  boost  up  on  the  car  step.  That 
recollection  amused  the  baggageman. 

"  You  don't  mean  Alfred  Dinsmore  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  Alfred  Dinsmore.  He's  a  middle  aged 
man  with  a  brown  beard,  but  I  guess  he'd  hardly  be  the 
man  you're  looking  for."  The  baggageman's  small 
face  puckered  humorously  at  that  suggestion. 

"  How  did  Alfred  Dinsmore  come  to  go  by  train  ?  I 
supposed  he'd  be  going  in  an  automobile  ?  " 

"  Usually    does    nowadays,"    the    baggageman    said. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  197 

"  He  used  to  take  the  train  every  morning.  Sometimes 
he  uses  the  train  now  in  winter  when  the  weather's  bad." 

"A  middle  aged  man  with  a  brown  beard,  eh? 
You're  sure,  now,  it  was  Alfred  Dinsmore?  " 

"  Sure  as  shootin' !  "  The  aged  and  baggy  baggage- 
man visibly  swelled  a  bit  with  importance.  "  I  know 
him  well's  I  know  my  own  mug  —  seen  him  hundreds  of 
times.  I  saw  him  last  night  plain  as  I  see  you.  He 
come  right  around  the  corner  of  the  station  here.  The 
train  was  pulling  out  then  and  he  started  for  it.  I 
called  to  him.  I  says,  '  You'll  have  to  run  for  it,'  and 
I  run  along  with  him  to  give  him  a  boost  up  on  the  step. 
No  doubt  about  it." 

"  Was  he  carrying  any  baggage  ?  "  the  skeptical  of- 
ficer asked. 

"  No,  sir.  I  noticed  he  was  dressed  kind  of  odd.  I 
thought  he  might  be  going  hunting  or  fishing  or  some- 
thing; had  on  kind  of  a  fishing  hat." 

The  baggageman  described  it  —  black  and  grey  check 
with  a  curled  up  brim  and  ribbed. 

"  Didn't  notice  any  stranger  at  all  except  the  two 
women?  "  Morden  asked,  amiably.  , 

"  No,  sir."  The  baggageman  cast  back  in  his  mind. 
"  I  was  out  on  the  station  platform  here  when  the  train 
pulled  in  and  when  it  pulled  out.  I'm  pretty  sure  there 
wasn't  any  strange  man." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  detective.  "  Fine  little  station 
you've  got  here.  Pretty  good  place  to  work,  eh?  " 

For  a  few  moments  more  they  conversed  amiably  on 
incidental  topics.  Then  Morden  gave  the  friendly  lit- 


198  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

tie  baggageman  a  cigar  and  strolled  away.  He  took 
the  7 :  32  train  to  the  city  mightily  pleased.  Luck  was 
coming  his  way. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  after  McMurtry 
left  his  house  Alfred  Dinsmore  had  gone  down  town, 
more  or  less  disguised,  visited  the  Christopher  Columbus 
Social  Club,  had  a  conversation  there  with  James  Col- 
lingwood  and  the  two  had  gone  away  together  about 
eleven  o'clock ;  also,  Dinsmore  had  spent  the  night  down 
town  and  sent  to  his  house  for  a  change  of  clothing  in 
the  morning. 

That  was  getting  close.  But  who  was  James  Colling- 
wood,  described  as  an  old  scout  that  lived  at  Luke's 
Hotel  and  spent  many  of  his  evenings  playing  poker? 
He  was  evidently  somebody  whom  both  Dinsmore  and 
William  Pomeroy  knew,  for  Jenny  Dupee  had  heard 
Dinsmore  mention  him  to  Pomeroy.  Odd  that  Alfred 
Dinsmore  would  be  knowing  a  man  of  that  sort.  .  .  . 

Morden's  wits,  sharpened  by  the  smell  of  a  warm 
trail,  worked  at  that  problem  as  he  rode  down  town. 
It  was  his  lucky  day  and  he  proposed  to  press  the  luck. 
But  it  was  only  a  quarter  past  eight  when  he  got  down 
town,  and  he  decided  to  wait  until  ten.  Then  he  re- 
turned to  the  Oasis  Saloon  and  climbed  the  stairs  to 
the  Christopher  Columbus  Social  Club. 

At  his  knock  the  door  opened  the  length  of  its  chain 
and  the  guardian's  shiny  eye  looked  out  —  with  rec- 
ognition, for  the  teeth  also  appeared  as  Morden  said, 
"  I  want  to  see  Mr.  Conley  a  minute." 

The  guardian  readily  admitted  him.     The  club  was 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  199 

then  in  operation  with  a  good  representation  of  the 
membership  present.  Three  of  the  four  round  poker 
tables  were  in  use,  several  men  sat  at  the  rectangular 
faro  table  and  a  number  of  others  stood  near  watching 
the  play.  The  air  was  already  somewhat  hazy  with 
tobacco  smoke,  and  the  genial  guardian  was  fairly  busy. 
In  addition  to  attending  the  door  he  operated  a  little 
dumb  waiter  that  ran  down  to  the  back  room  of  the 
saloon  below  —  and  up  again  with  such  refreshments  as 
the  members  ordered. 

The  three  rooms  in  the  suite  —  originally  designed 
for  lodgings,  perhaps,  or  offices  —  had  been  thrown 
together  by  broad  arches  so  by  simply  stepping  out 
into  the  first  one  Morden  had  a  view  of  the  whole  scene. 
Scenes  of  that  general  description  were  perfectly 
familiar  to  him,  but  his  first  survey  of  this  one  brought 
a  decided  disappointment. 

The  rectangular  table,  devoted  to  faro,  was  in  the 
further  room  and  behind  it  sat  flabby,  tawny-mous- 
tached  Mr.  Conley,  dealing,  which  is  an  absorbing  oc- 
cupation. The  dealer's  eyes  and  mind  must  be  directed 
steadily  to  the  paraphernalia  in  front  of  him  and  the 
little  box  at  his  side  from  which  he  gravely  slips  one 
card  at  a  time.  He  has  small  time  for  conversation  of 
any  sort;  none  at  all  for  conversation  not  connected 
with  his  occupation.  By  the  canons  of  the  persons  in 
the  club-rooms  interrupting  the  game  by  distracting  the 
dealer's  attention  was  a  good  deal  like  stepping  up  to 
the  minister  in  the  midst  of  a  marriage  ceremony  and 
requesting  a  few  minutes'  conversation.  Only  some  er- 


200  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

rand  of  the  gravest  importance  could  justify  it,  and 
Morden  didn't  wish  to  give  the  impression  that  he  was 
engaged  on  an  errand  of  the  gravest  importance.  As 
long  as  the  game  went  on  and  Mr.  Conley  dealt,  getting 
speech  with  him  was  going  to  be  awkward  —  and  that, 
presumably,  would  be  for  the  next  two  hours.  Disap- 
pointed, the  detective  stood  under  the  arch  watching 
the  play.  Once  the  flabby  dealer  looked  up,  saw  him, 
gave  a  slight  nod  and  immediately  resumed  his  absorb- 
ing occupation. 

Considering,  Morden  sauntered  back  to  the  first 
room.  With  gamesters'  indifference  to  anything  ex- 
cept their  game,  nobody  paid  attention  to  him.  The 
genial  guardian,  however,  had  attention  to  bestow  upon 
any  one  and  every  one. 

"  Mr.  Conley  usually  deal  faro  ?  "  Morden  inquired, 
casually. 

"  No,  sir,"  the  guardian  replied  promptly.  "  Dealer 
didn't  show  up  tonight."  He  exhibited  the  white  teeth. 
"  Stewed  agin,  I  reckon." 

Morden  grinned  appreciatively  and  the  guardian 
added  good-naturedly,  "  Mr.  Collingwood  didn't  show 
up  either." 

"  Didn't,  oh?  "  Morden  said,  as  though  it  had  no 
special  interest  for  him.  "  What  time  does  he  usually 
come?  " 

"  Usually  comes  before  this  if  he's  coming  at  all," 
the  colored  man  replied. 

"  Well,  I  may  drop  in  later,"  Morden  observed  in  his 
casual  manner,  "  If  I  don't  see  Mr.  Conley  tonight  I'll 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  201 

catch  him  tomorrow  or  next  day.  It's  no  great  mat- 
ter." Although  it  was  no  great  matter,  he  handed  the 
guardian  two  half  dollars. 

Leaving  the  social  club  the  detective  felt  disap- 
pointed. He  had  hoped  for  an  opportunity  to  observe 
Mr.  Collingwood  and  even  to  form  his  acquaintance. 
If  Collingwood  had  been  present  and  he  could  have  got 
a  minute's  private  talk  with  wise  Conny  Conley  that 
would  have  been  easily  arranged.  Morden  felt  that  he 
had  lost  a  trick  and  his  luck  had  temporarily  failed 
him. 

He  was  irritated,  also,  by  the  guardian's  prompt  ref- 
erence to  Collingwood.  It  meant  the  big  negro  knew 
that  his  visit  that  afternoon  somehow  concerned  James 
Collingwood  —  knew  it,  of  course,  from  the  question 
Conley  had  asked  him.  The  negro  also  knew  that  his 
companion  that  afternoon  was  Detective  Sergeant 
Laverty  of  the  police  department.  Probably  the  negro 
was  loquacious.  About  the  last  thing  Morden  wanted 
just  then  was  an  intimation  to  James  Collingwood  that 
the  police  were  interesting  themselves  in  him.  It  showed 
again  —  what  experience  had  often  shown  him  before 
—  that  one  can  hardly  stir  a  foot  without  leaving  some 
sort  of  trail. 

All  of  which  irritated  him  and  made  him  more  im- 
patient than  ever.  One  who  leaves  a  trail  ought  to 
travel  fast,  so  he  went  directly  to  Luke's  Hotel. 

Entering  beneath  the  canopy  of  coloured  glass  sup- 
ported by  ponderously  ornamented  iron  pillars  one  finds 
himself  in  a  lobby,  also  with  cast  iron  pillars,  but 


202 

painted  a  dull  yellow.  The  black  and  white  tile  floor 
is  worn  somewhat  uneven  in  spots  and  here  and  there 
a  loose  tile  gives  under  one's  foot.  There  are  a  couple 
of  lounges  and  a  couple  of  dozen  chairs,  corpulently 
stuffed  and  upholstered  in  red  leather.  In  more  toler- 
ant days  one  could  pass  directly  from  the  lobby  into  a 
pool  room  at  the  left,  where  bets  could  be  placed  on 
horse  races  and  other  sporting  events  with  no  more 
trouble  or  concealment  than  in  buying  a  loaf  of  bread. 
Those  days  had  passed,  but  the  hotel  clientele  was 
mostly  flavoured  with  them.  The  bar,  at  the  rear,  was 
almost  as  large  as  the  lobby  itself  and  much  more  pop- 
ular. 

Thither  Morden  went  —  impatient,  with  a  feeling 
that  he  was  leaving  a  trail  anyway,  and  bound  to  press 
his  luck.  Walking  briskly  down  the  long  room  —  with 
yellow  iron  pillars  and  worn  black  and  white  tile  like  the 
lobby  —  he  noticed  that  the  bar,  stretching  the  length 
of  the  room  at  his  right,  was  doing  a  flourishing  business 
that  evening.  A  screen  of  stamped  leather  stood  at 
the  further  end  of  the  bar.  Morden  stepped  around  it 
and  looked  into  the  open  door  of  a  small,  neat  business 
office  —  and  immediately  felt  better,  for  luck  was  with 
him  once  more. 

At  the  desk  in  this  small  office  sat  a  plump  elderly 
gentleman  who  —  if  he  had  taken  off  the  big  solitaire 
diamond  ring  that  glittered  on  his  white  left  hand  — 
might  have  been  taken  for  a  bank  president  or  railroad 
director,  for  he  looked  the  very  picture  of  dignified 
prosperity.  The  close-cropped  hair  that  covered  his 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  203 

head  except  for  a  bald  strip  on  top  was  white  and  so 
was  his  neatly  trimmed  moustache.  His  cheeks  were 
rosy,  however,  and  the  eyes  that  he  lifted  at  Morden's 
footfall  on  the  threshold  were  bright.  He  was  in  his 
shirt  sleeves  —  sleeves  of  the  finest,  whitest  linen  —  and 
evidently  engaged  in  business  affairs,  as  the  papers  on 
his  desk  showed.  This  was  Mr.  George  Allison,  once  an 
aspiring  young  bartender,  but  now  proprietor  of  the 
flourishing  establishment  through  which  the  detective 
had  just  walked  and  of  various  other  comforting  pos- 
sessions. 

"  How  are  you,  George?  "  said  Morden,  entering. 

"  Why,  how  are  you,  Jake  ?  "  the  proprietor  returned, 
genially,  extending  a  plump  white  hand.  "  Sit  down. 
Been  a  coon's  age  since  I  saw  you." 

For  a  minute  they  visited  amiably,  and  all  the  while 
the  bright  brown  eyes  of  the  man  at  the  desk  rested  on 
his  caller's  face  with  a  waiting  and  questioning  in  their 
limpid  depths.  Of  course,  this  visit  meant  something. 
Mr.  Allison  was  even  wiser  than  Conny  Conley.  After 
the  little  preliminaries,  Morden  brought  forward  his 
business : 

"  George,  there's  an  old  guy  named  Collingwood  stays 
at  the  hotel.  I  want  to  frisk  his  room." 

Mr.  Allison  seemed  to  find  nothing  shocking  or  even 
surprising  in  that  statement.  Studying  the  other  he 
merely  asked,  soberly,  "  What  is  it,  Jake  ?  " 

"  I  just  want  to  find  out  who  he  is  and  where  he 
comes  from,"  Morden  replied.  "  I  won't  start  any- 
thing here.  There'll  be  no  come  back.  I  believe  he 


204  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

can  lay  me  next  to  a  man  I  want  —  if  I'm  in  a  position 
to  make  him.  See?  Just  a  quiet  little  frisk." 

Mr.  Allison  considered  that,  twisting  his  neatly 
trimmed  moustache  between  a  neatly  manicured  thumb 
and  forefinger.  "  I  know  the  old  boy,"  he  remarked, 
incidentally ;  "  pretty  good  old  tanker." 

"  There's  a  fat  roll  in  this  for  me  if  I  can  get  it 
right,  George,"  Morden  urged.  "  There'll  be  no  come 
back  here.  I  can  promise  you  that." 

It  was,  in  a  manner,  a  rather  small  favour  that  the 
detective  asked.  Allison  was  willing  to  oblige  on  gen- 
eral principles.  Besides  Jake  Morden  might  be  very 
useful  sometime;  one  could  never  tell.  Still  the  pro- 
prietor was  conservative. 

"  Where  is  he  tonight  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Out  playing  poker,"  Morden  replied  promptly ;  but 
added,  also  conservatively,  "  unless  he's  come  in  the 
last  few  minutes." 

"  I'll  fix  it  for  you,"  said  Mr.  Allison  and  pressed  a 
call  button  on  his  desk.  After  a  moment  the  call  was 
answered  by  a  young  negro  in  a  white  apron  who  served 
the  tables  in  the  barroom. 

"  See  if  Tony  is  in  the  lobby,  or  down  stairs,  and 
tell  him  I  want  to  see  him,"  the  proprietor  directed ;  and 
after  a  longer  wait  a  stocky  and  red-faced  young  man 
in  a  blue  flannel  shirt  appeared  at  the  threshold.  On 
the  back  of  his  head  he  wore  a  stiff  blue  cap  with  a 
silver  badge  in  front  on  which  was  stamped,  "  Porter." 
He  looked  like  an  impudent  young  man. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  205 

"  Anybody  there  ?  "  Mr.  Allison  asked,  as  the  young 
man  stood  on  the  threshold. 

Tony  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  replied,  "  Nope." 

"  This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine  and  all  right," 
said  Mr.  Allison  gravely.  "  He  wants  to  frisk  Colling^ 
wood's  room.  It's  all  right.  There'll  be  a  ten-spot  in 
it  for  you." 

Tony  stood  at  attention,  without  the  slightest  mark 
of  surprise  or  disquietude;  and  Morden,  rising,  said, 
"  Much  obliged,  George ;  see  you  again." 

Out  in  the  barroom,  he  instructed  his  new  recruit; 
"  See  if  he's  in  his  room  first,  and  get  your  trunk 
k«ys." 

Tony  answered  with  ready  impudence,  "  I'll  go  knock 
on  his  door.  If  he's  in  I'll  ask  him  if  he  sent  for  a 
porter."  And  that  cool  resourcefulness  greatly  com- 
mended the  new  ally  to  Morden.  "  Wait  here  a  min- 
ute and  I'll  get  the  keys,"  the  porter  added. 

Morden  waited  and  very  shortly  Tony  reappeared 
with  a  cigar  box  under  his  arm.  Then,  cap  on  the  back 
of  his  head,  he  led  the  way  to  the  elevator.  They 
alighted  at  the  top  floor  and  Morden  followed  the  por- 
ter down  the  hall,  keeping  a  little  distance  behind  him. 
Glancing  at  the  door  numbers  as  he  went  along,  the 
porter  halted,  listened  an  instant  and  knocked.  After 
a  moment  he  knocked  again ;  then  took  a  passkey  from 
his  pocket,  opened  the  door  and  stepped  in.  When 
Morden  reached  the  door  the  porter  had  already  turned 
on  the  lights. 


206  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

The  detective  surveyed  a  very  plainly  furnished  bed- 
room, about  eight  feet  by  twelve.  It  contained  a  single 
bed,  a  tall  wardrobe,  a  bureau,  two  chairs.  Against  one 
wall  stood  a  cheap  trunk.  Tony  was  already  on  his 
knees  examining  the  lock  of  the  trunk  —  an  ordinary 
lock  such  as  commonly  goes  on  cheap  trunks.  The 
cigar  box  stood  on  the  floor  beside  him.  When  he 
opened  it  Morden  saw  that  it  was  two-thirds  full  of 
trunk  keys  —  thriftily  picked  up,  one  at  a  time,  and 
treasured  against  the  needs  of  guests  who  had  lost  their 
keys.  The  fifth  one  that  Tony  tried  opened  the  lock 
and  as  soon  as  it  was  open  the  porter  stood  up,  cal- 
lously expectant,  with  his  cigar  box  under  his  arm. 
Morden  gave  a  little  laugh  and  handed  him  a  ten-dollar 
bill.  With  no  more  emotion  than  he  had  displayed  be- 
fore, Tony  stuffed  the  bill  in  his  pocket  and  went  out  — • 
with  nothing  whatever  on  his  conscience  and  enriched 
by  an  easily  acquired  ten-dollar  bill. 

The  door  fastened  with  a  spring  lock,  so  if  any  one 
opened  it  while  Morden  was  inside  there  would  be  the 
warning  sound  of  the  key  in  the  lock.  If  any  one 
came  he  must  trust  to  his  wits  and  nerve.  He  threw  up 
the  lid  of  the  trunk.  In  the  upper  tray  he  found  a 
couple  of  soiled  and  frayed  neckties,  a  laundered  white 
shirt  undisturbed  for  so  long  that  it  had  taken  on  a 
slight  yellowish  tinge,  a  laundered  standing  collar  in 
the  same  state,  half  a  dozen  old  racing  forms  and  some 
other  like  rubbish;  but  nothing  whatever  to  his  pur- 
pose —  no  letters  or  any  other  articles  that  would  give 
a  clue  to  the  owner's  antecedents. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  207 

He  lifted  that  tray  out.  The  one  beneath  it  was 
quite  empty  and  he  lifted  that  out.  In  the  bottom  of 
the  trunk  lay  a  suit  of  well-worn  clothes,  not  folded 
but  tossed  carelessly  in  there,  a  gray  sombrero  hat,  a 
pair  of  low  tan-colored  shoes,  also  well  worn  and  un- 
polished, with  the  socks  stuffed  in  them.  Morden 
swiftly  examined  the  pockets  of  the  clothes,  but  they 
were  empty.  There  was  nothing  else  there.  A  mo- 
ment's investigation  showed  there  was  no  false  bottom 
or  secret  drawer  in  the  trunk. 

Morden  stood  up,  much  disappointed.  Apparently 
the  trunk  was  used  only  as  a  sort  of  lumber  room  into 
which  a  few  discarded  articles  had  been  tossed.  He 
turned  to  the  tall,  narrow  wardrobe,  of  stained  pine. 
A  brown  ulster,  a  lighter  overcoat  and  a  suit  of  heavy 
clothes  hung  on  its  hooks.  A  fur  cap  lay  on  the  shelf 
at  the  top  and  on  the  bottom  there  was  a  pair  of  high 
overshoes ;  also  a  small,  battered  brown  bag,  unlocked 
and  empty.  The  pockets  of  the  garments  yielded  noth- 
ing. 

He  stepped  to  the  bureau.  It  contained  a  meagre 
stock  of  cheap  shirts,  underwear,  socks,  collars.  From 
them  one  might  readily  deduce  that  their  owner  was  an 
untidy  man ;  but  nothing  else.  There  was  no  scrap 
that  gave  a  clue  to  Collingwood's  past  —  or  his  present 
for  that  matter.  In  all  his  experience  the  detective 
had  never  seen  a  human  habitation  so  completely  barren 
of  clues.  He  glowered  down  at  the  trunk,  then  stooped 
and  picked  up  the  rumpled  coat  again,  feeling  once 
more  through  its  pockets. 


208  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

In  weight,  the  garment  was  suitable  to  that  season. 
Although  it  showed  wear  it  was  not  really  shabby  — 
certainly  not  shabby  enough  to  be  objectionable  to  a 
man  whose  ideas  of  dress  corresponded  to  the  garments 
in  that  room.  Why  had  Collingwood  put  it  in  the  bot- 
tom of  his  locked  trunk  instead  of  hanging  it  more 
conveniently  in  the  wardrobe?  An  odour  came  from  it ; 
the  odour  of  gasoline.  Morden  looked  more  closely. 
Several  spots  on  the  front  and  sleeve  had  been  scrubbed 
with  a  cleansing  fluid  not  a  great  many  hours  before. 
Morden's  sense  of  disappointment  gave  place  to  ex- 
pectancy, and  he  examined  the  clothes  more  closely  so 
as  to  be  able  to  describe  them.  He  picked  up  the  hat, 
examining  that;  then  the  shoes.  Socks  might  count, 
too.  He  pulled  the  sock  out  of  the  shoe  in  his  hand 
and  at  once  saw  something  long  and  white  beneath  it. 
As  he  took  that  object  out  of  the  shoe,  his  mind  leapt 
triumphantly. 

It  was  a  horn-handled  knife  about  five  inches  long, 
the  blade  folded  down  into  the  handle.  When  he 
pressed  the  little  nickel  button  at  the  end  of  the  handle, 
the  bright,  murderous  blade  sprang  out.  As  Morden 
looked  it  over  the  gleam  in  his  eyes  answered  the  gleam 
of  the  blade.  He  pushed  the  blade  back  in  place,  con- 
sidered an  instant  and  put  the  contrivance  in  his  coat 
pocket ;  then  swiftly  rearranged  the  trunk  as  he  had 
found  it,  looked  around  the  room  to  see  that  he  had  left 
no  trace  of  his  search,  turned  out  the  light  and  peered 
into  the  hall.  The  hall  was  empty  and  he  stepped  out 
—  the  knife  with  which  William  Pomeroy  had  been 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  209 

killed  in  his  coat  pocket  and  the  key  to  Collingwood's 
trunk  in   his   vest   pocket.     And  when   he   left  Luke's 
Hotel,  his  mind  was  crowing  victoriously, 
"What  luck!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEVER  in  his  life  had  Lowell  Winthrop  faced  any- 
thing so  disagreeable  as  this;  never  had  he 
imagined  that  he  should  face  anything  so  disagreeable. 
For  once  in  his  life  he  had  not  slept  well.  His  mother 
noticed  it  —  as  an  experienced  trainer  notices  that  a 
race  horse  has  mysteriously  gone  off  some  points  from 
perfect  form.  He  laughed  pleasantly  at  her  fond 
solicitude  and  suggested  that  possibly  he'd  taken  a 
slight  cold. 

All  day,  at  the  office,  he  wasn't  up  to  the  mark  — 
somewhat  distrait,  nervous ;  even  somewhat  irritable, 
his  smooth  brow  wrinkling  now  and  then  in  a  frown  of 
disapproval.  All  the  time  he  was  waiting  for  a  message 
that  did  not  come.  At  dinner  he  was  still  waiting  for 
the  message  and  still  it  did  not  come. 

Instinctively  and  consciously  he  was  an  artist  in 
living  —  all  should  be  bright,  smooth,  perfectly  ordered. 
And  here  was  a  great  muddy,  bloody  splotch  right 
down  in  the  middle  of  it!  Naturally  he  felt  a  deep 
exasperation.  He  was  angry  because  the  message  did 
not  come  —  and  felt  a  contempt  for  Dinsmore  for  fail- 
ing to  send  it.  All  the  same,  he  had  a  duty  to  perform. 
He  hated  it  more  than  he  had  ever  hated  anything  else 
in  his  life ;  but  it  was  a  duty  —  a  duty  to  himself. 
After  dinner  therefore  he  went  to  the  telephone  and 
called  Dinsmore  up. 

"  I   should   like   a    talk   with  you.     I'll   come   down 
210 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  211 

now  if  you  can  see  me,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  cool 
and  even,  a  pleasant  voice ;  but  there  was  a  sort  of  fate- 
fulness  in  it.  There  was  to  be  no  dodging  him. 

So  that  evening  the  two  men  met  again  in  Dinsmore's 
library  —  Winthrop  as  before  in  a  perfectly  fitting 
dinner  coat,  the  colour  of  perfect  health  in  his  smooth 
cheeks,  but  his  grey  eyes  under  heavy  yellowish  eye- 
brows looked  uneasy.  Dinsmore,  as  often  happened 
when  he  dined  at  home,  was  wearing  the  sack  coat  and 
coloured  shirt  of  business  hours.  And  Winthrop 
noticed  a  I  once  that  he  didn't  seem  in  his  usual  vigorous 
health  and  spirits  —  slightly  paler  and  with  circles 
under  his  eyes.  There  was,  too,  subtly,  a  reserve  in 
his  manner. 

"  You  asked  me  here  last  night,  you  know,"  Win- 
throp began,  a  bit  nervously,  when  they  were  seated. 

"  Yes,"   Dinsmore   replied. 

"  It  was  by  your  invitation  that  I  overheard  any- 
thing," Winthrop  went  on.  "  I  wish  you  to  keep  that 
in  mind." 

"  Of  course,  I  owe  you  an  apology,"  said  Dinsmore. 
"  I  shouldn't  have  left  you  that  way.  I  clean  forgot 
it.  It  was  —  only  toward  morning  that  I  remembered 
about  your  being  here.  I  knew  you  would  have  gone 
home  then.  Sorry." 

"  Oh,  that's  no  matter,"  Winthrop  assured  him  —  a 
note  of  impatience  in  the  polite  tone.  He  touched  his 
short,  neat  blond  moustache  nervously  with  the  tip  of 
a  forefinger,  hesitated  a  moment  and  said,  "  Of  course 
I  expected  to  hear  from  you  today." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

That  statement  seemed  mildly  to  surprise  Dinsmore; 
but  he  made  no  answer,  simply  waiting. 

For  once  Lowell  Winthrop  was  not  in  perfect  form; 
but  very  obviously  nervous.  He  frowned  and  even 
fidgeted  a  bit ;  then  fairly  blurted  in  uncontainable  im- 
patience, "  I  heard  you  accused  of  murder." 

That  also  seemed  rather  to  surprise  Dinsmore.  He 
knew  the  fact  before,  but  seemed  now  to  see  it  from  a 
new  angle.  He  looked  deeply  perplexed  and  said, 
"  Yes,"  in  a  rather  toneless  voice ;  then  plucked  his 
beard  and  half  stifled  a  sigh  and  muttered  helplessly, 
"  God  knows  whether  that's  true." 

"  You  mean  you  don't  know?  "  Winthrop  demanded, 
incredulously. 

Dinsmore  rubbed  his  brows  in  perplexity,  and  replied 
earnestly,  "  It's  a  long  story,  Lowell  —  an  old  story. 
I  wish  I  could  go  over  it  all  with  you.  But  I  can't. 
I'm  simply  bound  to  keep  my  mouth  shut." 

Winthrop  was  frowning  and  seemed  interested  in  the 
state 'of  his  finger  nails.  After  a  moment  he  asked, 
plumply :  "  Did  you  send  McMurtry  the  seventy-five 
thousand  dollars  you  mentioned  to  him?  " 

"  Yes,"  Dinsmore  replied. 

Again  a  pause,  during  which  Winthrop  stirred  a  bit 
in  his  chair.  "  It's  true,  then,  that  you've  been  pay- 
ing somebody  money  regularly  for  a  good  while?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dinsmore. 

Winthrop  folded  his  hands  and  contemplated  them, 
and  presently  looked  over  at  Dinsmore.  "  If  you're 
in  the  hands  of  blackmailers,  Dinsmore,  I'll  do  all  I 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  213 

know  to  rid  you  of  them.     I'll  make  it  my  business." 

It  was  an  honourable  offer,  earnestly  made  and  Dins- 
more  was  aware  that  to  a  man  in  that  situation  Win- 
throp's  eminent  law  firm  might  be  very  helpful.  "  I 
know  you  would,  Lowell,"  he  responded  warmly.  "  It's 
good  of  you  to  offer.  But  there's  absolutely  nothing 
you  could  do." 

"  Paying  blackmail,  you  know,  is  like  a  drink  habit 
or  a  drug  habit,"  the  lawyer  urged.  "  The  more  you 
do  it,  the  harder  it  is  to  stop.  The  only  way  is  to 
make  a  stand  and  down  it." 

"  I  know  that,"  Dinsmore  replied.  "  But  —  well, 
I've  nothing  to  stand  on.  I  simply  can't  do  it.  I've 
gone  over  it  a  thousand  times.  .  .  .  I've  just  got  to 
hump  my  back  and  pay  —  for  the  present."  He 
looked  deeply  disturbed,  and  added,  "  Some  day,  no 
doubt,  I  can  tell  you  all  about  it.  But  not  now.  My 
mouth  is  shut." 

The  silence  then  was  longer  than  any  preceding  one, 
and  Winthrop  found  it  necessary  to  clear  his  throat 
of  a  slight  huskiness  before  speaking,  but  when  he 
spoke  his  voice  was  perfectly  steady: 

"  Of  course,  it  is  tremendously  important  to  me  .  .  . 
I  suppose  the  dinner  invitations  were  sent  out  yester- 
day." 

Dinsmore  evidently  didn't  understand  the  relevance, 
and  looked  a  blank  question. 

"  The  engagement  is  to  be  formally  announced  then, 
you  know,"  Winthrop  reminded  him,  looking  at  the 
grate. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Slowly  an  astonishing  idea  dawned  upon  Dinsmore's 
mind.  The  astonishment  held  him  for  some  time  as  he 
looked  over  at  his  perfectly  groomed  caller.  Finally 
he  asked,  in  a  slow  and  controlled  voice : 

"  You  mean  that  —  what  you  overheard  last  night 
would  make  a  difference  about  your  engagement  to 
Louise?  " 

"  Decidedly,"  Winthrop  replied,  and  even  looked 
Dinsmore  firmly  in  the  face.  Then  his  eyes  fell  and 
he  said,  with  some  emotion,  "  I  wish  heartily  this  ha<jl 
not  come  up  until  after  the  marriage.  I  would  have 
accepted  it  then,  as  a  fact  accomplished.  But  it  has 
come  up.  We've  got  to  deal  with  it." 

"  I  see.  ...  It  has  come  up,"  Dinsmore  muttered, 
after  a  little  while. 

"  It  has  come  up,"  Winthrop  repeated,  firmly.  He 
lowered  his  voice  further,  looking  Dinsmore  in  the  face. 
"  You  are  accused  of  murder  —  a  very  shocking  mur- 
der as  it  happens.  You  are  paying  blackmail  to  the 
accusers.  You  say  you  must  continue  it  —  you  can't 
make  a  stand  against  them.  .  .  .  Would  you  expect  me 
to  overlook  that  ?  " 

Dinsmore  moved  in  his  chair  and  plucked  at  his 
beard,  his  eyes  avoiding  the  other  man's.  "  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it  in  that  way,"  he  said.  "  That  hadn't  oc- 
curred to  me."  He  gave  a  flickering  smile  and  added, 
"  No  one  has  accused  my  daughter  of  murder." 

That  suggested  the  romantic  idea  of  marriage,  as 
nothing  but  a  love  affair  between  a  young  man  and  a 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  215 

young  woman  —  an  idea  for  which  Lowell  Winthrop 
had  much  contempt. 

"  Well,  look  at  it,"  he  suggested.  "  Things  of  that 
sort  have  a  way  of  coming  to  light.  I  gather  that 
you've  been  paying  somebody  to  keep  still  for  a  good 
while.  Now  somebody  else  has  got  wind  of  the  affair. 
Other  people  are  on  your  back  demanding  hush  money. 
I  told  you  McMurtry  was  a  blackleg.  He'll  bleed  you 
white  and  then  probably  betray  you,  too.  Lord  help 
anybody  who  must  depend  on  him  for  each  day's 
security.  Say  we're  married  and  this  thing  comes  out. 
You  can  see  the  mess.  It  isn't  myself,  Dinsmore  — 
not  myself  alone.  You're  too  sensible  to  think  that. 
I  owe  something  to  my  family.  My  messes  are  their 
messes.  You  know  well  enough  what  I  would  have  let 
them  in  for.  I  owe  something  to  my  children  .  .  . 
People  in  our  position  —  the  grandfather  is  one  of  the 
child's  conditions.  I  wish  heartily  it  hadn't  come  up 
until  after  our  marriage.  But  it  has  come  up.  I've 
got  to  meet  it." 

Whenever  he  fixed  his  thought  on  Louise  —  beautiful 
Louise  —  charming  Louise  —  he  really  did  wish  heartily 
that  it  hadn't  come  up  until  after  their  marriage.  But 
he  wasn't  always  thinking  of  Louise.  Frequently  he 
was  thinking  of  himself,  and  then  his  thought  was,  "  In 
any  event,  thank  God,  I  got  hold  of  this  in  time  to 
smoke  it  out  before  it  was  everlastingly  too  late !  " 

Fastidious  to  extreme  in  all  his  tastes,  any  such  mess 
as  this  affair  foreshadowed  was  simply  intolerable  to 


216  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

him.  He  hadn't  remained  a  bachelor  so  long,  in  spite 
of  many  temptations,  in  order  to  wed  a  ghastly  mur- 
der. That  would  harrow  him  up  in  the  most  unbear- 
able fashion.  A  beautiful  wife,  and  her  father  hung, 
or  as  good  as  hung!  The  idea  fairly  sickened  him. 
And  always  there  had  been  a  sort  of  reluctance  in  his 
mind ;  giving  up  his  comfortable  bachelorhood  was 
quite  a  sacrifice. 

"  I  hadn't  thought  of  it  in  that  way,"  Dinsmore  re- 
peated, mechanically. 

He  was  looking  at  his  caller  with  curiosity,  as  though 
finding  a  new  man  in  him.  He  knew  all  about  Lowell 
Winthrop's  fastidiousness  and  formalness ;  knew  he  had 
a  very  high  idea  of  family  —  especially  his  own  family. 
Yet  it  had  been  his  unformulated,  taken-for-granted 
notion  that  if  a  peril  confronted  his  daughter  —  the 
peril,  say,  of  disgrace  to  her  father  —  this  young  man 
would  be  the  first  to  leap  to  her  side,  ready  to  spend 
his  last  breath  defending  her.  But  in  this  peril,  it 
seemed,  the  young  man's  idea  was  to  scuttle  out  of 
harm's  way  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Winthrop  addressed  him  again,  very  earnestly: 
"  I'm  ready  to  do  all  I  know,  Dinsmore,  to  help  you  out 
of  this.  I  believe  that's  the  only  way.  Finally  you've 
got  to  fight  it  out  with  them.  If  you  wish  to  do  that 
now,  I'm  at  your  disposal  absolutely." 

His  new  idea  of  this  young  man  prompted  Dinsmore 
to  suggest,  "But  if  I  did  that  —  most  likely  there'd 
be  a  mess,  as  you  term  it  —  a  scandal.  I  might  be 
indicted  —  a  trial.  All  that  would  take  time.  .  .  . 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  217 

What  I'm  thinking  of,  you  see,  is  your  affair  with 
Louise.  Making  a  stand  would  take  time.  I  believe 
the  invitations  were  sent  out  yesterday." 

Winthrop  paused  for  deliberation.  It  was  a  pain- 
fully disagreeable  point.  Looking  at  the  grate  he 
replied,  under  his  breath,  "  All  I  can  say  is  —  unless 
you  can  give  me  a  different  idea  of  the  situation  from 
what  you  have  given  me  —  the  invitations  should  be 
recalled.  What  happened  later  on  —  we  could  only 
wait  and  see." 

So  it  was  as  Dinsmore  had  suspected.  The  urgent 
advice  to  resist  the  blackmailers  was  the  advice,  simply, 
of  the  conscientious  attorney  who  was  warning  his 
client  against  an  unprofitable  course  of  conduct.  As 
to  the  intimate,  personal  relationship  of  prospective 
son-in-law  Mr.  Lowell  Winthrop  proposed  to  keep  his 
skirts  clear  until  he  was  assured  that  Dinsmore  was 
such  a  person  as  he  could  accept  for  grandfather  to  his 
children. 

A  smile  so  faint  that  Winthrop  missed  it  played  be- 
hind Dinsmore's  beard.  "  As  I  get  your  point  of 
view,  probably  the  only  thing  is  to  recall  the  invita- 
tions," he  said  drily. 

"  I  think  so,"  Winthrop  murmured  —  with  convic- 
tion. It  was  a  very  painful  thing  to  him.  A  mental 
picture  of  Louise  intrigued  his  heart  at  that  moment. 
"  I  think  we  should  wait.  In  time  —  it  may  be  differ- 
ent," he  added,  lamely. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Dinsmore  said, 
"You  will  tell  Louise?" 


218  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  I  think  you  should  tell  her,"  Winthrop  replied. 
"  It  would  be  difficult  for  me  to  tell  her  without  telling 
more  than  I  have  a  right  to."  After  a  little  pause  he 
added,  "  I  must  trust  to  you  to  make  it  fair  to  me." 

And  Dinsmore  was  faintly  amused  at  this  appeal  to 
the  honour  and  chivalry  of  a  murderer.  A  moment 
later  he  perceived  that  Winthrop  was,  perhaps,  not 
entirely  relying  on  those  qualities  in  him,  for  the  young 
man  observed,  in  what  might  have  been  a  significant 
way: 

"  Of  course,  I  shall  see  her  myself  later,"  which  was 
another  indication  of  how  absolutely  sure  of  himself 
Winthrop  felt. 

"  Well  —  there  seems  to  be  nothing  more  at  present," 
said  Dinsmore. 

"  No,"  Winthrop  replied. 

The  two  men  stood  up  and  there  was  a  certain  amaze- 
ment in  Dinsmore's  mind  as  he  looked  at  his  caller. 
The  interview  had  occupied  half  an  hour  or  so.  They 
had  been  sitting  within  ten  feet  of  each  other.  Yet  he 
now  saw  Winthrop  as  though  they  had  been  separated 
by  many  years  and  long  distances  —  fairly  as  though 
he  had  just  returned  from  a  couple  of  decades  in  the 
Orient.  The  man  looked  different.  His  yellowish  eye- 
brows were  thicker,  he  was  heavier,  there  were  marks  of 
age  upon  him,  hitherto  unperceived. 

In  a  lesser  way  Lowell  Winthrop  felt  this  wide 
alienation.  Practically  breaking  one's  engagement  to 
a  gentleman's  daughter  must  involve  considerable  alien- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  219 

ation.  It  had  been  intensely  disagreeable.  He  hadn't 
a  doubt  that  he  had  acted  correctly,  yet  it  was  all  ex- 
cessively unsatisfactory. 

"  I  think  you  can  appreciate  my  point  of  view,"  he 
said  as  they  stood  —  his  nicely  modulated  voice  pitched 
low  and  his  eyes  downcast.  "  Just  put  yourself  in  my 
place."  He  looked  up  at  Dinsmore.  "  You  know 
Louise  and  young  Proctor  were  rather  thick  at  one 
time.  You  put  a  stop  to  it,  she  tells  me.  None  of  us 
wants  to  be  let  in  for  a  thing  like  that." 

That  shaft  went  home.     Dinsmore's  eyes  showed  it. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Winthrop  with  courtesy. 

"  Good  night,"  Dinsmore  replied  mechanically,  and 
let  the  young  man  find  his  familiar  way  out. 

That  reference  to  Ned  Proctor  had  fairly  hit  him 
amidship.  He  certainly  had  put  a  stop  to  it  when  dis- 
grace claimed  Proctor's  father  —  a  disgrace  decidedly 
less  black  than  murder.  He  could  defend  himself  on 
the  ground  that  Ned  Proctor's  career  before  that 
hadn't  been  such  as  to  recommend  him;  that,  in  fact, 
Louise's  thickness  with  him  had  been  disagreeable  all 
along;  that  the  disgrace  had  involved  the  young  man 
himself  to  the  extent  of  getting  him  indicted;  that  the 
senior  Proctor's  crimes  were  peculiarly  detestable  to 
him  —  an  odious  mess  of  lying  and  swindling  that 
finally  ruined  all  those  savings  bank  depositors;  that 
his  solicitude  for  his  daughter  was  rather  different 
from  Lowell  Winthrop's  solicitude  for  himself;  that 
Louise  and  Ned  Proctor  were  not  engaged.  He  could 


220  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

defend  himself;  but  after  all  the  shaft  went  home. 
The  man  who  had  just  left  the  room  could  turn  his 
own  action  against  him. 

He  sat  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  to  think  it  over 
a  while,  and  when  he  went  to  join  his  wife  it  was  in  a 
different  mood  from  that  in  which  he  would  have  gone  if 
Winthrop  had  omitted  the  reference  to  Ned  Proctor. 

The  first  mood  had  been  just  the  reaction  of  his  pride. 
He  couldn't  imagine  himself  negotiating  with  any  man 
on  earth  as  to  whether  that  man  should  marry  his 
daughter.  There  couldn't  possibly  be  anything  to  ne- 
gotiate about  that.  If  Lowell  Winthrop  had  been  a 
crown  prince  and  intimated  that,  for  any  reason  what- 
ever, he  wished  his  engagement  with  Miss  Louise  Dins- 
more  terminated,  Dinsmore  would  at  once  —  figur- 
atively —  have  handed  him  his  hat  and  indicated  the 
door  by  which  he  could  depart.  That  was  the  reaction 
of  his  pride.  But  the  Proctor  business  coming  up  — 
well,  he  went  in  a  humbler  mood. 

He  found  his  wife  in  the  living  room  and  as  it  hap- 
pened his  daughter  was  with  her.  Mrs.  Dinsmore  was 
very  little  given  to  literature.  She  looked  over  a  daily 
newspaper,  if  she  happened  to  think  of  it ;  sometimes 
read  a  magazine  story  and  once  in  a  while  —  a  rather 
epochal  event  —  a  popular  novel.  But  she  got  through 
life  very  happily  and  competently  with  surprisingly 
little  reliance  upon  print.  So  now,  on  this  quiet  even- 
ing at  home,  instead  of  a  book  or  periodical,  her  pretty 
hands  held  a  little  embroidery  frame  on  which  she  was 
skilfully  working  a  pattern  in  coloured  silk  threads. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  221 

They  were  very  pretty  hands  —  like  her  whole  graceful, 
beautifully  clean,  wholesome,  gracious  self.  Louise 
sat  on  an  ottoman  at  her  mother's  knees,  like  a  full- 
grown  child  —  taller  than  her  mother  in  fact.  Evi- 
dently the  two  women  had  been  talking  intimately. 
Dinsmore  caught  that  impression  as  he  approached 
and  they  looked  up  at  the  intruding  male.  At  sight 
of  them  his  errand  became  more  difficult,  even,  than  he 
had  imagined  it  —  especially  at  sight  of  Louise. 

She  was  but  three  inches  shorter  than  himself;  full- 
grown,  mature  woman.  The  flowing  lines  of  her  body 
beneath  a  filmy  gown,  as  she  sat  with  her  hands 
clasped  round  a  knee,  proclaimed  that.  It  came  to 
Dinsmore  that  in  playing  his  role  of  benevolently  in- 
tervening Providence  —  first  as  to  Proctor,  next  as  to 
Lowell  Winthrop  —  he  had  probably  made  too  little 
account  of  the  heart  that  beat  under  that  filmy  gown. 
This  lovely  compound  of  graces  and  affections  on  the 
ottoman  might  have  been  bruised  by  parental  hustling 
to  this  side  and  that  in  a  way  he  hadn't  properly  al- 
lowed for.  He  would  have  liked  to  begin  by  stooping 
and  kissing  her ;  but  there  was  that  miserable  discord ; 
they  were  off  key.  He  sat  down  opposite  them;  there" 
fore,  and  gnawed  a  corner  of  his  lip.  Seldom  was  a 
father  in  a  more  difficult  situation.  He  had  only  his  set 
will  to  carry  him  through. 

"Winthrop  has  just  been  to  see  me,"  he  began. 
"  The  invitations  to  that  dinner  must  be  recalled.  He 
wishes  the  engagement  broken  off  —  or  suspended  at 
any  rate." 


222  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

At  that  amazing  statement  Mrs.  Winthrop  dropped 
her  embroidery  frame;  her  lips  parted,  but  no  sound 
came.  She  sat  gorgonized,  staring  incredulously  at 
him.  Louise  also  stared,  and  slowly  paled. 

"  It's  no  fault  of  Louise's,"  Dinsmore  proceeded 
steadily.  "  He  finds  —  that  Fm  not  eligible  as  a 
father-in-law."  He  would  have  given  very  much  to  let 
it  go  at  that ;  but  he  could  not.  "  He  finds  me  in  a 
disgraceful  situation  —  liable  to  be  brought  into  public 
disgrace."  He  forced  his  eyes  to  remain  on  Louise's 
face  and  his  lips  to  say,  "  You  know  how  I  felt  about 
young  Proctor  .  .  .  Well,  Winthrop  finds  me  in  a 
worse  situation  than  Proctor's  father.  He  mentioned 
that  precedent  to  me.  He  doesn't  wish  —  to  commit 
himself,  now,  to  marriage  with  the  daughter  of  a  man 
in  that  position.  He  wants  the  engagement  —  not  an- 
nounced formally  at  this  time." 

So  he  got  it  out  and  it  seemed  mostly  all  Greek  to 
the  two  wide-eyed  women  before  him. 

"Proctor?"  Mrs.  Dinsmore  murmured. 

"  Yes  —  the  Proctor  case,  only  worse  —  as  he  sees 
it,"  Dinsmore  replied. 

And  after  another  incredulous  moment,  Mrs.  Dins- 
more  said  softly,  like  one  playfully  protesting  at  a 
joke,  "  Oh,  Alf !  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  " 

A  sigh  escaped  him,  and  he  said,  "  It's  perfectly 
true.  He  wishes  the  engagement  —  suspended,  or 
broken  off." 

The  sigh,  which  he  would  have  suppressed  if  he  had 
had  time,  seemed  to  carry  more  conviction  than  his 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

words.  Mrs.  Dinsmore  promptly  laid  down  her  em- 
broidery frame,  stepped  over,  seated  herself  on  his  knee 
and  put  an  arm  around  his  neck.  There  was  no 
suspicion  of  tears  in  her  eyes  and  except  that  she  had 
lost  colour  her  face  showed  no  great  emotion.  Her 
male  person  had  always  been  a  difficult  person  in  some 
situations.  This  was  one  of  them. 

"What  is  it,  Alf  ? "  she  said.  "What  has  hap- 
pened? " 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  waist  and  replied,  "  It's  some- 
thing I  can't  tell  you  now,  dear." 

"  But  we'll  both  have  to  know,"  she  coaxed.  "  Has 
the  business  gone  wrong?  " 

"  No,  it's  nothing  whatever  to  do  with  the  business 

—  any  business,"  he  replied. 

She  pushed  back  his  hair  and  kissed  his  forehead,  her 
arm  tightening  around  his  neck.  He  felt  immensely 
grateful  to  her  and  immensely  proud  of  her.  Her 
superior  friends  often  confessed  to  one  another,  indul- 
gently, that  she  had  no  mind  to  speak  of;  but  he  knew 
she  would  go  through  any  ordeal,  close  to  his  side,  with- 
out a  murmur.  She  was  not  good  at  intellectual 
exercises,  but  she  knew  her  man  to  a  degree  he  hardly 
realized  —  divining  the  difficulties  he  had  with  his  tem- 
per. She  knew  he'd  got  himself  locked  up  now  in 
obstinate  pride. 

"There  are  other  people  in  it?"  she  guessed,  as  a 
reason  for  his  silence. 

"  Yes,  some  other  people."     He  looked  in  her  eyes 

—  his  fond,  steadfast  mate  after  all  —  and  hugged  her 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

against  him,  saying,  "  Nell,  it  will  all  come  out  right  in 
the  end  —  for  me.  You  don't  need  to  doubt  that." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it,  dear,"  she  said  and  kissed  his 
forehead  again.  "  Has  the  business  gone  wrong, 
Alf  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,"  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 
"  The  business  was  never  better.  It's  nothing  about 
business  or  money  ...  I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  but  I 
can't  now.  It  will  come  out  right  in  the  end.  The 
thing  now  is  —  he  breaks  the  engagement." 

The  girl  on  the  ottoman  had  been  left  out  of  this 
little  scene  between  husband  and  wife  —  a  little  scene 
not  exactly  agreeable  to  her,  as  demonstrations  of  love 
between  father  and  mother  are  apt  to  be  not  quite 
agreeable  to  grown  children  who  instinctively  regard 
that  as  something  for  youth.  But  Dinsmore's  last 
words  brought  the  girl  into  it  again.  Looking  over  at 
her,  Mrs.  Dinsmore  saw  that  she  had  lost  colour  and 
her  eyes  were  round  with  astonishment. 

Certainly  it  was  an  affront  —  an  insult  —  to  the 
young  woman.  Whatever  the  reasons  for  it  might  have 
been,  it  put  her  in  the  humiliating  position  of  one  re- 
jected. Inevitably,  it  would  cause  talk  —  much  dis- 
paraging talk.  That  phase  of  it  came  to  Mrs.  Dins- 
more.  '  Sitting  on  her  husband's  knee,  her  lip  trembled. 

"  He's  a  brute !  "  she  said  and  tears  of  sympathetic 
pain  came  into  her  eyes.  "  I  don't  care  what  happened, 
it's  a,  shame !  He's  a  cad  to  treat  a  girl  so !  She's  not 
to  blame!  I  hate  him  for  it!  I'll  never  speak  to  him 
again  in  my  life !  He's  a  brute  to  treat  her  so !  " 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  225 

Never  had  they  heard  her  speak  of  any  one  in  that 
way  before.  She  got  up  from  her  husband's  knee,  re- 
turning to  her  chair  and  put  her  hand  on  Louise's  head, 
her  eyes  dropping  tears. 

"  Don't  you  mind,  Louie !  You  haven't  done  any- 
thing wrong!  He's  a  brute  to  treat  you  that  way! 
We're  well  rid  of  him !  I'll  never  speak  to  him  again !  " 

She  had  been  the  strongest  partisan  of  Lowell  Win- 
throp,  and  Louise  had  thought  the  social  distinction 
which  such  a  marriage  involved  was  precious  to  her. 
But  at  this  injury  to  her  daughter  all  that  was  wiped 
out.  "  It's  outrageous  to  treat  you  so,  dear ! "  she 
stormed  on,  her  heart  wrung  with  sympathetic  pain. 

Her  rain  of  tears  and  sweet,  distressed  voice  af- 
flicted Dinsmore's  heart.  It  came  to  him  bitterly  that 
as  husband  and  father  he  had  little  enough  to  con- 
gratulate himself  on,  seeing  what  he  had  brought  to 
his  daughter  and  wife  that  night.  He  felt  a  great  guilt 
and  contrition. 

"  I'm  terribly  sorry,  Lou,"  he  said  humbly,  his  eyes 
downcast. 

"  You  musn't  mind,  father ;  I  don't,"  her  low  voice 
came  back,  like  the  fond  touch  of  a  hand. 

But  he  had  no  doubt  she  did  mind  very  much  —  as 
who  wouldn't.  She  was  rejected,  humiliated;  and 
finally  it  was  his  work.  He  felt  very  humble,  and  an 
immense  kind  of  disgust  with  himself.  But  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  The  matter  was  settled.  He  got 
up  and  walked  from  the  room  silently,  leaving  the 
women  to  their  grief  of  his  making. 


226  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Louise  saw  him  arise  with  a  pang.  If  he  had  stayed 
longer  she  might  have  spoken  out.  Her  first  impres- 
sion, when  he  said  Lowell  Winthrop  broke  the  engage- 
ment, was  like  the  cut  of  a  whip.  She  was  astonished, 
and  indignant  at  the  affront  to  her  proper  self-respect. 
But  that  impression  was  rather  fleeting.  A  little  later, 
her  heart  bounded  and  she  wanted  very  much  to  laugh 
outright.  .  .  . 

"  You  musn't  mind,  dear ;  it's  no  fault  of  yours," 
her  mother  was  saying,  weeping,  when  they  were  alone. 

Louise  lifted  a  shining  face  to  her  and  exclaimed, 
"  Mother,  I  don't  care  a  rap !  Not  a  rap !  I'm  glad ! 
I  don't  want  to  marry  him  any  more  than  he  wants  to 
marry  me  —  nor  a  hundredth  part  as  much !  I'm 
glad ! " 

She  meant  it,  too ;  the  swirl  of  emotions  in  her 
breast  had  come  around  to  that.  She  had  accepted 
Lowell  Winthrop  deliberately,  with  her  eyes  open,  but 
without  pretending  to  herself  or  him  that  it  was  an 
over-mastering  passion.  He  could  give  her  what  she 
wanted  in  life;  with  him  it  would  always  be  front  seat 
as  a  matter  of  prescriptive  right.  He  was  able  and 
agreeable,  always  doing  the  right  thing  in  the  right 
way.  She  liked  his  looks  —  that  appearance  of  per- 
fect bodily  condition.  There  had  been  another  motive 
—  the  sharp  reaction  from  her  quarrel  with  her  father 
over  Ned  Proctor  —  a  sort  of  heaping  of  coals  of  fire. 
If  her  father  wished  to  manage  her  affairs  for  her,  let 
him  have  exactly  what  he  liked.  She  had  said  that  she 
was  very  fond  of  Lowell.  Her  disposition  was  warmer 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  227 

and  more  impulsive  than  his.  In  those  little  matters 
of  a  squeeze  of  the  hand,  a  pressure  of  the  arm,  even  a 
kiss,  it  had  rather  been  she  who  gave  and  he  who  re- 
ceived than  the  other  way  around  —  for  she  had  ac- 
cepted him  without  reservations,  meaning  to  be  per- 
fectly sweet  to  him  from  the  moment  she  said,  "  Yes.'* 

Those  little  wooings  on  her  part  came  into  her  mind 
when  she  was  up  stairs  in  her  own  room,  after  having 
parted  from  her  astonished  mother.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain sting  in  them.  Probably,  she  thought,  he  believed 
she  was  tremendously  in  love  with  him  and  would 
humbly  sit  on  the  door  step  waiting  until  he  took  her 
back  —  if  he  should  finally  deem  himself  justified  in 
taking  her  back.  There  was  a  sting  to  her  pride  in 
that  thought.  But  in  spite  of  it  she  laughed,  saying 
to  herself,  "  He  was  perfect  —  a  perfect  tailor's 
dummy,"  and  so  figuratively,  threw  him  out  of  the  win- 
dow for  good.  .  .  . 

She  had  said  that  she  was  only  decently  sorry  for 
poor  old  Ned ;  that  it  was  just  decent  and  nothing  more 
to  look  him  up  a  bit  and  give  him  a  passing  handshake. 
She  had  kept  on  saying  that  to  herself  after  she  knew 
it  was  a.  lie.  But  of  late  she  had  found  herself  in  a 
monstrous  position  from  which  there  seemed  no  escape. 
How  could  she  avoid  marrying  Lowell  Winthrop  when 
she  had  deliberately  plighted  her  troth?  Well,  Lowell 
Winthrop  himself  had  let  her  out  of  that  impossible 
position. 

It  all  came  around  to  that  —  the  one  thing  that 
counted  —  and  her  heart  laughed.  And  then  misgave 


228  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

somewhat,  too,  for  a  settlement  with  Lowell  Winthrop 
was  vastly  different  from  a  settlement  with  the  other 
man.  Yet  a  great  and  joyous  sense  of  relief  was  her 
chief  emotion.  Under  the  impulsion  of  it  she  went  to 
her  writing  desk  to  indict  a  little  note  —  a  very  in- 
nocent little  note,  mentioning  that  she  would  be  round 
by  the  bank  at  five  the  next  afternoon.  But  as  she 
approached  the  writing  table  something  else  came  up 
in  her  mind. 

Before  going  down  stairs  that  evening  she  had  laid 
three  letters  on  the  table  —  two  of  them  addressed  to 
herself,  opened,  read  and  replaced  in  their  envelopes ; 
the  other  written  by  herself  and  put  into  its  envelope 
but  not  sealed.  The  letters  looked  as  though  they  had 
been  carelessly  dropped  where  they  lay,  but  in  fact  she 
had  so  placed  them  that  she  could  identify  their  posi- 
tions by  a  hair's  breadth.  Into  one  of  them  she  had 
put  a  tiny  bit  of  tissue  paper;  into  another  a  speck 
of  face  powder;  into  the  third  half  an  inch  of  white 
silk  thread.  Her  own  wits  had  suggested  those  expedi- 
ents to  her. 

Approaching  the  writing  table,  she  remembered  that, 
and  saw  at  a  glance  that  all  three  letters  had  been 
moved  from  the  position  in  which  she  left  them.  As  she 
drew  them  from  their  envelopes  she  saw  that  the  traps 
had  been  sprung,  for  her  tell-tales  were  missing.  Be- 
yond doubt  somebody  had  read  the  letters  since  she 
went  down  stairs.  .  .  . 

At  their  last  meeting,  as  they  were  driving  home 
from  the  tea  room,  Ned  Proctor  had  said  to  her :  "  I 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  229 

supposed  I  was  about  as  obscure  and  humble  an  in- 
dividual as  could  be  found  nowadays.  I  thought  they'd 
simply  wiped  me  off  the  slate  and  forgotten  that  I  was 
alive.  But  I  must  be  of  more  account  than  I  sup- 
posed, for  somebody  is  enough  interested  in  me  to  keep 
watch  of  me  —  find  out  where  I  go  and  what  I  do. 
Probably  a  sleuth's  trailing  along  in  the  shrubbery 
over  there  now.  I'm  sure  they're  welcome." 

"Not  really?"  she  had  exclaimed,  astonished  and 
indignant. 

"  Fact,  Lou,"  he  replied.  "  Somebody's  hired  to 
keep  tab  on  me  all  the  while  —  some  of  that  old  busi- 
ness of  father's,  I  suppose.  But  you  mustn't  ever 
smoke  a  pipe  or  cuss  a  waiter  when  you're  with  me. 
They'll  get  it  down  in  the  report  if  you  do." 

It  had  a  light  sound,  yet  there  had  been  something 
peculiar  in  his  manner  of  saying  this  —  a  kind  of 
nervous,  self-conscious  note.  She  noticed  that  he 
avoided  looking  at  her. 

"  The  idea ! "  she  had  exclaimed  once  more,  but 
fainter.  In  fact  it  had  occurred  to  her  that  he  meant 
to  convey  a  warning  —  let  her  know  by  indirection  that 
a  watch  was  kept  on  them.  The  hint  had  worked  in 
her  mind  until  she  decided  to  find  out,  by  this  little 
trap  of  the  letters,  whether  a  watch  was  kept  on  her; 
for  she  had  noticed  some  things  which,  if  she  had  been 
inclined  to  suspicions,  might  well  have  raised  a  suspicion 
that  her  maid,  Jenny  Dupee,  was  spying.  .  . 

Well  —  she  was  spied  upon.  No  doubt  of  that  now. 
The  test  of  the  letters  showed  it.  She  might  have  im- 


230  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

puted  it  solely  to  Jenny's  curiosity  but  for  the  hint 
Ned  Proctor  had  dropped.  .*  .  . 

The  idea  of  a  spy  turned  her  rather  sick  —  naturally 
a  nauseating  idea.  For  she  could  imagine  no  motive 
for  spying  upon  her  except  with  regard  to  Ned  Proc- 
tor. And  who  could  be  setting  a  spy  on  them?  Who 
could  have  a  motive  for  it?  Could  it  be  Lowell  Win- 
throp?  .  .  .  Could  it  be  her  father?  That  question 
turned  her  rather  sick. 

The  gilt  clock  on  the  mantel  showed  five  minutes  past 
ten  .  .  .  Too  late,  she  decided,  loathly,  to  call  Ned  up 
then.  She  would  find  out  tomorrow ;  but  instead  of 
writing  a  note  to  make  an  appointment  she  would  take 
the  surer  means  of  telephoning. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  an  unhappy  evening  for  Charles  Purcell, 
managing  editor  of  the  Leader.  He  had  learned 
of  the  murder  of  William  Pomeroy  about  eleven  o'clock 
that  morning  and  had  promptly  set  the  conspiratorial 
forces  in  motion.  He  had  viewed  the  body  of  the  vic- 
tim, immediately  and  positively  identifying  it; 
Pomeroy  was  certainly  dead.  He  had  telephoned 
McMurtry,  saying,  "  It's  the  man ;  no  doubt  about  it." 

And  since  then  not  the  slightest  sign  or  sound  of  the 
conspiratorial  operations  had  reached  him.  He  had 
telephoned  McMurtry's  office  during  the  afternoon,  but 
the  lawyer  was  out;  and  when  he  telephoned  again  at 
half  past  five  the  answer  was  that  Mr.  McMurtry  had 
not  returned  and  the  office  was  closing  for  the  day. 

To  be  left  in  the  dark  that  way  was  trying.  He  was 
not  free  to  dispose  of  his  time  as  the  lawyer  and  de- 
tective were;  duties  at  the  newspaper  office  claimed 
him.  He  accused  his  partners  of,  at  least,  slighting 
him.  Surely  something  was  happening.  The  most 
momentous  things  might  be  happening.  Certainly 
they  could  have  sent  him  a  little  word. 

Some  time  after  Morden  sat  down  to  eat  in  the  little 
restaurant  at  Highlands  —  no  more  thinking  of  Pur- 
cell  than  of  the  man  in  the  moon  —  the  managing  editor 
went  out  to  dine,  taking  care  to  leave  word  where  he  was 
going  so  that  any  one  who  called  up  the  office  would 
know  where  to  find  him.  But  nobody  did  call  up  the 

231 


232  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

office.  It  came  nine  o'clock,  ten  o'clock,  eleven  o'clock 
and  not  a  word. 

The  managing  editor  became  increasingly  nervous, 
resentful  —  and  suspicious.  He  didn't  like  what  had 
happened  the  night  before  —  McMurtry  and  Morden 
meeting  before  he  got  there  and  McMurtry  reporting 
he  had  got  no  money.  An  uneasy  man  naturally, 
rather  timorous,  yet  led  on  by  a  mighty  hunger  for 
money,  he  was  sure  to  be  most  unhappy  in  this  situa- 
tion. He  realized  that  the  affair  had  been  taken  out  of 
his  hands  —  more  than  ever  since  his  find,  Pomeroy, 
was  dead.  McMurtry  and  Morden  could  double-cross 
him  if  they  wanted  to  —  an  unpalatable  thought  to  a 
suspicious  nature.  But  cowardice  is  sometimes  more 
dangerous  than  courage;  a  cornered  rat  is  a  bad  op- 
ponent. 

At  half  past  eleven  he  called  up  the  Morden  Detec- 
tive Agency  —  doubtful  that  anybody  would  be  in  at 
that  hour.  Somebody  was  in,  however.  The  sharp- 
nosed  young  man  answered. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Purcell  of  the  Leader.  Mr.  Morden 
there?"  said  Purcell. 

"  No,  Mr.  Morden  hasn't  been  in  this  evening,"  the 
voice  answered. 

"  Expecting  him?  " 

"  He  didn't  leave  any  word." 

"  Take  a  message  for  him.  I  have  something  of  the 
greatest  importance  that  I  want  to  speak  to  him  about. 
If  he  comes  in,  I  want  him  to  call  me  up  right  away. 
.  .  .  Right  away.  Get  that? 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Yes,  sir ;  all  right,  Mr.  Purcell.  I'll  give  him  the 
message  if  he  come  in." 

"  Right  away !  This  can't  wait ! "  Purcell  repeated 
and  hung  up  the  receiver  in  a  fine  glow  of  determina- 
tion. Whereupon  the  sharp-nosed  young  man  with  the 
moth-eaten  hair  stepped  back  into  the  tiny  hall,  and 
turning  to  the  open  door  of  the  small  den  on  the  left, 
said: 

"  Purcell  of  the  Leader  has  been  asking  for  you.  He 
said  it  was  important  and  he  wanted  you  to  call  him  up 
right  away,  soon  as  you  came  in.  He  seemed  kind  of 
huffy  about  it." 

"  Huffy,  eh  ?  "  Morden  asked,  thoughtfully. 

"  Sounded  that  way,"  said  the  young  man.  "  He 
said,  '  Right  away ! '  two  or  three  times." 

"  I  ain't  in  if  anybody  else  calls,"  Morden  observed, 
repeating  an  instruction  he  had  given  when  he  entered 
the  office  ten  minutes  before. 

He  had  repaired  to  his  office  after  searching  James 
Collingwood's  room  at  Luke's  Hotel  partly  because  he 
wanted  to  see  if  anything  in  particular  had  turned  up 
there  and  partly  because  he  wanted  to  think.  The 
sharp-nosed  young  man  having  withdrawn,  he  gave 
himself  over  to  that  occupation  as  he  sat  square- 
shouldered,  square-jawed  and  glowering  at  his  desk. 

He  didn't  like  McMurtry's  report  of  the  night  be- 
fore that  Dinsmore  had  agreed  to  pay  only  fifty  thou- 
sand dollars.  Fifty  thousand  was  nothing  to  Dins- 
more.  The  man  ought  to  have  been  brought  across 
much  stronger  than  that.  He  didn't  like  the  further 


234-  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

report  that  even  the  promised  fifty  thousand  had  not 
been  forthcoming.  At  best,  McMurtry  was  too- 
cautious  ;  not  handling  the  thing  right.  Morden  was 
perfectly  confident  of  his  own  ability  to  bring  Dinsmore 
to  time  far  more  satisfactorily.  He'd  have  said  half  a. 
million  —  and  got  it. 

He  took  the  odd,  murderous  knife  out  of  his  pocket 
and  looked  it  over  with  affection.  As  the  game  stood, 
it  was  even  more  in  his  hands  than  in  McMurtry's 
hands.  That  was  what  he  wanted  to  think  over.  Mc- 
Murtry was  waiting  up  for  him  over  at  the  Hotel 
Cardinal  —  or  McMurtry  was  over  there,  whether 
waiting  up  or  not,  for  their  last  word  had  been  that  the 
lawyer  would  stay  down  town  that  night  and  the  de- 
tective would  report  to  him  as  soon  as  his  night's  work 
was  done,  or  by  breakfast  time  in  the  morning  in  any 
event.  Morden  was  considering  what  he  should  report, 
or  whether  he  should  report  at  all.  Neither  of  them 
had  thought  particularly  about  Purcell. 

Purcell  needed  some  handling,  however;  all  around, 
it  needed  handling,  and  McMurtry  was  the  only  man 
to  do  it.  Much  as  he  would  like  to  do  it,  Morden 
couldn't  push  the  affair  through  on  his  own  hook. 
With  that  conclusion  to  his  cogitation  the  detective 
went  over  to  the  Hotel  Cardinal,  ignoring  the  manag- 
ing editor's  message.  The  lawyer  was  waiting  up  for 
him.  In  the  hotel  bedroom  the  two  men  sat  down  to- 
gether and  Morden  faithfully  repeated  his  discoveries, 
down  to  the  knife,  which  McMurtry  examined  with 
lively  interest. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  235 

"  Hell,  we've  got  him ! "  the  detective  growled. 
"  We've  got  him  cinched  seven  ways  from  the  ace. 
We'll  pull  his  leg  for  a  million  at  ten  o'clock  tomor- 
row morning."  He  glowered  at  his  friend,  with  his  air 
of  a  savage  dog  about  to  bite,  and  added  significantly, 
"  If  you  won't,  I  will.  He's  got  to  come  across." 

McMurtry  realized  that  his  intractable  associate  was 
perfectly  capable  of  doing  just  what  he  said;  and  as 
he  rubbed  his  smoothly  shaven,  over-developed  jaw, 
above  which  there  was  the  hint  of  an  ominous  grin,  his 
grey  eyes  twinkled  thoughtfully: 

"  It  does  look  a  cinch,"  he  admitted,  conservatively. 
"  I'll  go  at  him  in  the  morning." 

Morden,  with  a  steady  glance  and  unmistakable  sig- 
nificance, replied,  "  I'll  go  along  myself.  He  might  just 
as  well  know  what  he's  up  against.  I'll  go  with  you." 

In  the  detective's  looks,  even  more  than  in  his  words, 
there  was  an  ultimatum.  One  result  of  his  cogitations 
had  been  that  there  should  be  no  more  faltering  about 
the  business  and  that  he  himself  would  be  present  when 
the  financial  details  were  concluded.  McMurtry  under- 
stood both  motives  perfectly;  understood  also  the  man 
with  whom  he  was  dealing.  So  he  said  readily,  "  All 
right,  Jake ;  I'm  agreeable,"  —  concealing  whatever 
disappointment  he  felt.  He  considered  a  moment 
further  and  added,  "  Meet  me  here  at  half  past  seven 
in  the  morning.  We  may  as  well  get  him  here  as 
anywhere.  We'll  catch  him  before  he  leaves  his 
house." 

"  Sure !  "  said  the  detective ;  and  on  that  understand- 


236  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

ing  they  parted  —  Morden  not  even  remembering  to 
mention  that  Purcell  had  called  him  up. 

But  McMurtry  remembered  the  other  partner  as  he 
was  undressing,  and  called  up  the  newspaper  office. 

"  Our  case  is  moving  along,"  he  said  pleasantly  over 
the  wire.  "  Our  man  will  probably  be  working  on  it  all 
night.  I'm  going  to  turn  in  now  but  I  expect  to 
hear  from  him  by  morning.  I'll  call  you  up  by  noon 
anyway.  It's  moving  along." 

And  with  that  small  crumb  the  managing  editor  was 
compelled  to  be  content  for  the  time  being.  So  when 
the  conspirators  retired  that  night  each  of  them  was 
entertaining  some  strong  mental  reservations  respect- 
ing the  others. 

At  half  past  seven  next  morning  Morden  tapped  on 
the  door  of  McMurtry's  room  and  they  spent  a  little 
time  discussing  at  what  hour  Dinsmore  would  probably 
come  down  stairs  for  breakfast. 

"  We  might  have  found  out  from  Jenny,"  McMurtry 
observed,  with  a  passing  regret. 

"What  difference  does  it  make?  If  he  ain't  up  he 
can  get  up.  Call  him  anyhow,"  said  aggressive  Mor- 
den. 

"  I'd  rather  catch  him  on  the  wing,"  the  lawyer  ob- 
jected. "  We'll  wait  till  a  quarter  of  eight." 

At  that  hour  he  called  Dinsmore's  house,  saying, 
"  Mr.  McMurtry  —  Mr.  Lawrence  McMurtry  — 
wishes  to  speak  to  Mr.  Dinsmore  immediately  on  a 
very  urgent  matter." 

Some     minutes     passed     and     the     servant's     voice 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  237 

answered,  "  Mr.  Dinsmore  is  not  dressed  yet.  He  will 
call  you."  And  the  speaker  immediately  rang  off. 

With  a  muttered  curse  at  the  stupidity  of  servants 
in  general,  McMurtry  got  the  connection  again  and 
instructed,  "  Have  Mr.  Dinsmore  call  me  at  Room  812, 
Hotel  Cardinal."  He  repeated  it  to  be  sure  it  was 
taken  down  properly,  then  they  waited.  At  twenty 
minutes  past  eight,  he  called  again  and  repeated  his 
message :  "  Mr.  Lawrence  McMurtry  wishes  to  speak 
to  Mr.  Dinsmore  at  once  on  a  very  important  matter." 

There  was  a  long  delay,  while  McMurtry  held  the 
wire ;  then  the  answer  came,  "  Mr.  Dinsmore  has  gone 
down  town." 

Repeating  the  message  to  the  detective,  McMurtry 
observed  ominously,  "  Looks  as  though  the  gentleman 
was  trying  to  dodge  the  gaff." 

"  Ought  to  have  given  him  the  gaff  in  the  first  place 
hard  enough  so's  he'd  be  acquainted  with  it,"  Morden 
retorted  —  blaming  the  lawyer's  softness  for  this  con- 
temptuous treatment  of  them  on  the  part  of  Dinsmore. 

That  retort  nettled  McMurtry,  who  replied,  "  He'll 
get  it  this  time.  We'll  wait  a  little  and  try  him  at  his 
office." 

The  waiting,  with  their  nerves  on  edge,  was  dis- 
agreeable, and  this  difficulty  in  reaching  Dinsmore's  ear 
reminded  them  of  how  amply  he  was  protected. 

At  a  quarter  past  nine,  McMurtry  called  up  Dins- 
more's office.  The  answer  was  that  Mr.  Dinsmore  had 
not  arrived  yet.  The  lawyer  left  no  message  for  him ; 
but  called  again  at  twenty  minutes  to  ten.  Then  the 


238  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

answer  was  that  Mr.  Dinsmore  was  in  a  conference  and 
could  not  be  disturbed. 

So  they  had  spent  two  hours  merely  in  trying  to  get 
word  to  Dinsmore,  and  all  in  vain.  Morden's  ill  na- 
ture had  increased  steadily,  and  McMurtry  had  been 
reflecting  —  knowing  well  enough  that  Morden  blamed 
him  for  their  victim's  disparaging  attitude. 

"  We'll  go  over  to  my  office,"  said  the  lawyer,  as  soon 
as  the  last  message  came.  "  I  can  get  a  messenger 
there  that  I  can  rely  on." 

They  went  over  to  the  law  office  in  almost  complete 
silence,  Morden  blaming  his  partner  and  the  partner  re- 
senting it.  In  his  office  McMurtry  took  a  sheet  of 
note  paper  with  his  letter-head  on  it  and  a  plain 
envelope.  Looking  at  his  watch,  which  showed  five 
minutes  of  ten,  he  wrote  on  the  sheet: 

I  have  reason  to  believe  that  James  Collingwood  may  be 
arrested  on  a  charge  of  murder  in  half  an  hour.  Kindly 
call  me  up  at  my  office  before  10:30. 

L.  McM. 

Showing  that  to  the  detective,  he  commented,  "  If 
his  private  secretary  wants  to  read  that,  let  him." 

He  put  the  note  in  the  plain  envelope,  addressed  the 
latter  to  Mr.  Dinsmore,  wrote  "  Personal  and  Im- 
mediate "  in  the  corner  and  underscored  the  words. 
Then  he  called  a  young  man  from  the  outer  room  and 
directed  him  to  deliver  the  note  at  once  at  Dinsmore's 
office. 

Again  they  waited.     All  this  delay,  the  difficulty  in 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  239 

merely  getting  word  to  Dinsmore  and  the  contemptuous 
attitude  on  his  part  which  that  implied,  was  trying  to 
their  nerves  and  tempers. 

"  You've  let  him  play  horse  with  you,"  Morden  re- 
marked ungraciously.  "  You  ought  to  have  soaked 
him  right  when  you  had  him." 

Naturally  that  was  irritating  to  McMurtry,  but  he 
was  more  diplomatic.  "  This  Pomeroy  business  hadn't 
happened  then,"  he  reminded  his  friend;  but  he  added, 
with  heat,  "  If  that  note  don't  fetch  him  by  half  past 
ten  we'll  have  Collingwood  pinched  on  some  trumped 
up  charge  and  see  if  that  jars  him  any." 

"  Sure!  "  said  the  detective,  pleased  and  mollified  by 
that  prospect  of  bold  action. 

But  at  twenty  minutes. past  ten  the  telephone  rang, 
and  McMurtry,  with  tingling  nerves,  exulted  to  hear  a 
voice  saying :  "  This  is  Mr.  Dinsmore.  What  do  you 
want?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  down  to  my  office,"  the  lawyer 
replied  promptly.  "  I  have  something  very  important 
to  say  to  you."  There  was  a  little  pause,  and  he 
added,  "  A  warrant  may  be  issued  at  any  moment." 

Then  the  voice  said,  "  Very  well ;  I'll  come  down 
there.  But  one  thing,  McMurtry  —  you  mentioned  a 
Dr.  Dill  to  me  the  other  night.  I  want  to  see  him  and 
hear  what  he  has  to  say.  I  want  to  clean  this  up  once 
for  all.  There'll  be  no  use  in  my  coming  down  there 
unless  you  have  the  doctor  present.  I  mean  to  see  him 
and  hear  what  he  has  to  say  myself." 

"  I'll  have  him  here,"  said  the  lawyer  promptly. 


240  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Very  well,  I'll  be  there  in  fifteen  minutes,"  said  the 
voice. 

So  the  lawyer  had  gained  his  main  point  of  getting 
Dinsmore  to  the  office;  yet  he  turned  away  from  the 
telephone  with  a  thoughtful,  dubious  expression,  and 
reported  to  Morden  : 

"  He  wants  Dr.  Dill  here  —  wants  to  see  him  and  hear 
what  he  has  to  say  himself.  Says  he  won't  do  any 
business  with  us  otherwise  —  or  it  amounts  to  that." 

"  Won't,  eh?  "  Morden  growled.  "  We'll  make  him. 
As  to  Dr.  Dill,  he  can  go  to  hell.  We're  to  name  the 
conditions  —  not  him." 

They  both  realized  the  vital  importance  of  keeping 
Dr.  Dill  securely  in  their  own  hands ;  but  after  all  the 
great  thing  was  to  get  the  money  in  the  easiest  and 
quickest  way. 

"  The  main  thing  now,"  said  McMurtry,  turning  it 
over  in  his  mind,  "  is  to  get  him  down  here.  ...  If  he 
doubts  that  we've  got  Dr.  Dill,  or  that  the  doctor  will 
stick  to  the  story.  ..."  He  turned  it  over  further 
and  suggested,  "  He  can't  start  anything  against  Dr. 
Dill  without  tipping  off  the  whole  story.  I  don't  see 
but  we'd  be  safe  enough  —  here  in  my  office.  What 
could  Dinsmore  do  ?  " 

Morden  didn't  see  that  he  could  do  anything  in  par- 
ticular in  the  way  of  getting  the  doctor  out  of  their 
hands;  but  he  naturally  resisted  any  concessions  to 
Dinsmore,  and  repeated :  "  Let  him  go  to  hell.  We'll 
fix  the  conditions." 

"  But  if  he's  holding  off  because  he  doubts  that  we've 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  241 

got  Dr.  Dill  or  that  the  doctor  will  stick  to  the  story, 
we  may  as  well  satisfy  him  on  both  points,"  McMurtry 
argued.  "  The  great  thing,  Jake,  is  to  shake  him 
down  —  get  the  money  out  of  him.  If  he'll  shake  easier 
after  he's  seen  Dr.  Dill  with  his  own  eyes,  don't  you 
see  .  .  .  What  we  want  is  the  money.  The  quickest 
way  to  get  it  is  the  best,  so  long  as  it's  safe.  He 
couldn't  start  anything  against  Dr.  Dill  without  giving 
the  whole  story  away  —  which  is  the  last  thing  in  the 
world  he  wants  to  do.  I  don't  see  but  we'd  be  safe 
enough." 

They  argued  further,  with  the  upshot  that  Morden 
telephoned  his  office,  so  that  Dr.  Dill  could  be  produced 
in  a  few  minutes  if  that  seemed  desirable.  And  when  he 
had  finished  a  stenographer  from  the  outer  office  tapped 
on  the  door  and  said  Mr.  Dinsmore  was  there. 

He  came  in  with  a  composed  air  and  a  quick  glance 
that  took  in  the  scene  —  a  lawyer's  private  office,  one 
of  a  suite  of  rooms  in  a  tall  office  building,  and  as  like 
a  thousand  other  lawyers'  private  offices  as  two  peas. 
His  glance  also  took  in  the  burly,  carelessly  dressed 
stranger  in  the  room  with  an  unspoken  question. 
Whereupon  McMurtry  spoke  up,  with  the  greatest  af- 
fability : 

"  This  is  Mr.  Morden,  Mr.  Dinsmore  —  Mr.  Jacob 
Morden  of  the  Morden  Detective  Agency,  who  is  as- 
sociated with  me  in  this  matter." 

It  was  in  the  form  of  an  introduction,  but  the  two 
men  merely  looked  at  each  other  —  a  truculent  took 
on  Morden's  part  and  a  calm  survey  on  Dinsmore's 


242  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

part.  Quite  in  his  character  of  affable  host,  McMur- 
try  motioned  to  a  chair  at  the  office  table  and  said, 
"  Take  a  seat." 

The  indicated  chair  was  on  the  nearer  side  of  the 
table.  Dinsmore  took  it  and  the  other  two  sat  down 
opposite  him.  The  scene  was  thus  set  and  it  seemed 
the  lawyer's  cue  to  speak : 

"  Soon  after  I  left  your  house  night  before  last,  Mr. 
Dinsmore,"  he  began,  in  a  subdued  voice,  but  very  dis- 
tinctly, "  you  changed  your  clothes,  put  on  a  black  and 
grey  checked  hat  and  took  the  10:18  train  down  town. 
You  went  over  to  the  Christopher  Columbus  Club, 
called  James  Collingwood  into  the  hall  and  after  a  little 
talk  went  away  with  him.  James  Collingwood  then 
killed  William  Pomeroy.  The  knife  with  which  Pome- 
roy  was  killed  was  found  in  Collingwood's  trunk  last 
night  —  in  his  room  at  Luke's  Hotel."  He  glanced  at 
Morden  who  took  the  knife  from  his  pocket  and  laid  it 
on  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

"  I'm  giving  you  only  a  sketch  of  the  case,"  McMur- 
try  continued.  "  There's  no  need  of  going  into  finer 
details  —  now.  We're  ready  to  arrest  Collingwood  on 
a  charge  of  murder  immediately  —  and  to  prove  the 
charge.  Of  course  we  know  what  motive  you  had  for 
wishing  Pomeroy  out  of  the  way." 

Both  men  were  watching  Dinsmore  carefully,  and 
both  of  them  were  sure  that  it  shook  Dinsmore's  firm 
nerves.  He  put  a  hand  up  to  his  beard,  as  though  he 
could  not  help  it,  and  seemed  unable  to  overcome  the 
fascination  of  the  knife.  After  an  instant  he  asked : 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  243 

"  Who  else  is  associated  with  you,  McMurtry?  " 

"  Nobody,"  the  lawyer  replied  promptly. 

They  thought  Dinsmore's  eyes  quailed  and  his  hands 
moved  a  little  restlessly ;  but  his  voice  was  quite  even 
as  he  said,  "  I  propose  to  clean  this  thing  up,  once  for 
all  —  one  way  or  the  other.  If  anybody  else  is  in  this 
affair  with  you,  or  knows  what  you're  doing,  I  want  to 
know  it  now."  He  paused  for  an  answer  and  again 
McMurtry  lied  smoothly,  saying: 

"  Mr.  Morden  and  myself  are  the  only  people  con- 
cerned. There  is  nobody  else  in  it." 

And  Morden  put  in  aggressively,  "  We're  the  whole 
works.  You  can  do  business  with  us  —  right  now. 
Time  is  short." 

Dinsmore  put  a  hand  up  to  his  beard.  They  thought 
he  was  getting  himself  more  firmly  in  hand.  "  Why 
short?  "  he  asked  in  an  almost  casual  tone. 

"  Because  I've  got  a  finger  on  Collingwood  now,"  the 
detective  answered  bluntly,  "  and  unless  I  pinch  him 
there's  a  chance  he'll  get  away.  We've  got  to  fish  or 
cut  bait  right  now." 

Dinsmore  then  studied  the  detective's  face  more 
leisurely  than  before  —  with  an  aggravating  leisureli- 
ness,  in  fact  —  and  repeated,  "  Well  —  I  propose  to 
clean  it  up  once  for  all,  one  way  or  the  other.  I'm  go- 
ing to  be  done  with  it.  If  I'm  to  fight  at  all  I  may  as 
well  fight  now  as  later." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  McMurtry  replied  with  a  smile. 

"  I'm  not  in  the  worst  position  in  the  world  for  a 
fight,  you  know,"  Dinsmore  reminded  him.  "  William 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Pomeroy  is  dead.  That  leaves  you  with  nobody  to 
rely  on  but  the  doctor  —  Dill." 

"  And  Peter  Sykes,"  said  Morden. 

Dinsmore  paused  a  moment,  contemplating  the  table 
and  confessed,  "  It's  true  —  I  left  out  Sykes." 

"  Don't  forget  Peter,"  said  the  detective,  with  a  jocu- 
lar grin. 

"  Maybe  you've  left  him  out,"  said  Dinsmore  signifi- 
cantly. "  You  don't  know  whether  Peter  Sykes  would 
identify  me  as  the  young  man  he  saw  thirty  one  years 
ago.  You  don't  know  whether  he  would  deny  your 
doctor's  whole  story.  The  whole  story  rests  on  the 
doctor  now.  You  can  judge  how  well  he  would  prob- 
ably stand  the  battering  he'd  get  if  he  charged  me  with 
murder.  Peter  Sykes  —  do  you  think  he  would  be 
anxious  to  say  he  was  engaged  in  a  bank  robbery?  Of 
course,  he'd  be  accessory  to  the  murder.  Men  aren't 
usually  anxious  to  stick  their-  necks  in  halters." 

"  But  it  was  only  robbery  so  far  as  Sykes'  intentions 
were  concerned,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  He  didn't  fire  the 
shot.  Peter  Sykes  is  a  very  respectable  citizen  now 
—  as  probably  you  know.  There's  no  blood  on  his 
hands  except  in  a  technical  way.  If  he  turned  state's 
evidence  against  the  man  that  did  the  actual  killing 
I'd  guarantee  to  get  him  off  before  my  jury.  Thirty 
one  years  is  a  long  time." 

"  A  long  time,"  Dinsmore  repeated.  "  It  counts  as 
much  for  me  as  for  him.  I'm  a  very  respectable  citizen, 
too.  You're  sensible  enough,  McMurtry,  to  know  that 
if  a  man  in  my  position  fights  —  well,  there'll  be  a  real 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  245 

fight.  You're  not  blackmailing  a  woman,  you  know, 
who's  simply  terrified  and  helpless  and  will  do  whatever 
you  say.  You  must  know  that  I'll  take  no  punishment 
lying  down.  Suppose  you  spring  your  story.  Well, 
there'll  be  a  lot  of  money  spent  and  a  lot  of  hard  knocks 
exchanged  before  you've  got  me  down  even  then." 

McMurtry  had  had  various  experiences  of  this  gen- 
eral nature.  He  had  seen  people  terrified  and  abject 
and  he  had  heard  people  rage,  but  he  had  never  before 
met  with  this  cool  calculation.  It  rather  threw  him  off 
his  balance.  Lips  closed,  he  warily  studied  the  man 
opposite  him.  He  wondered  if  Dinsmore  might  have 
an  understanding  with  Peter  Sykes.  For  the  conspira- 
tors, Peter  was  a  sort  of  exposed  flank. 

"  You  spring  your  story.  To  support  it  you've  got 
one  Dr.  Dill  —  not  the  most  formidable  witness  in  the 
world  by  a  long  shot.  The  man  Colby,  dead ;  the  man 
Pomeroy,  dead.  You've  got  Dr.  Dill."  He  then 
looked  McMurtry  hard  in  the  eye.  "  You  haven't  got 
Peter  Sykes  —  not  by  a  good  deal  you  haven't." 

It  was  a  hard  shot,  for  both  McMurtry  and  Morden 
were  aware  that  Peter  was  an  uncertain  quantity  to 
them  —  while  Dinsmore  might  have  reason  to  feel  sure 
of  him.  An  instant  passed  before  Morden  said: 

"  We  can  get  him  if  we  need  him  —  you  can  bank  on 
that." 

"  But  I  don't  bank  on  it,"  Dinsmore  replied. 
"  You've  got  Dr.  Dill,  who'll  probably  swear,  at  first, 
that  he  treated  a  young  man  for  gunshot  wound  the 
night  of  that  affair  in  Billingtown,  Nebraska.  He'll 


246  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

describe  the  young  man  —  with  a  peculiar  and  strongly 
marked  scar  on  his  chin.  And  he'll  swear  —  at  first  — 
that  I'm  the  same  man.  Alfred  Dinsmore,  you  know  — 
a  name  that  stands  for  something  —  known  here  for 
many  years  as  such  and  a  kind  of  man.  What  would  a 
jury  say  to  that?  " 

Morden,  who  was  not  lacking  in  nerve,  leaned  for- 
ward a  little,  looking  Dinsmore  in  the  eye  and  replied, 
"  Probably  they'd  ask  Alfred  Dinsmore  to  shave  off  his 
beard." 

Dinsmore  put  a  hand  up  to  the  appendage  mentioned 
and  said,  "  They  might  do  that." 

"  They  might,"  said  the  detective,  with  triumph. 

"  And  Alfred  Dinsmore,"  the  bearer  of  that  name 
resumed,  "  might  retort  that  a  scar  on  his  chin  was 
well  known  to  many  people  at  one  time  in  his  life  — 
before  he  wore  a  beard.  His  lawyers  might  urge  that 
a  gang  of  blackmailers  had  learned  about  that  scar; 
that  they  made  up  a  plot  to  extort  money  from  him  and 
hired  this  disreputable  old  doctor  to  perjure  himself; 
that  they  told  the  doctor  about  this  scar  on  Dinsmore's 
chin.  And  when  Peter  Sykes  denied  the  whole  story  — 
well,  it  would  be  a  great  case  you'd  have,  McMurtry." 

The  detective  turned  to  his  partner,  saying  omin- 
ously, "  We  may  as  well  have  a  show  down.  I'll  go 
pinch  Collingwood  right  now." 

"  You  see,  there's  another  angle  to  the  case,  Dins- 
more,"  McMurtry  observed,  with  his  bland  manner. 
"  The  first  thing  to  come  on  the  carpet  is  the  murder 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  247 

of  William  Pomeroy.  That's  no  thirty-one-year-old 
thing,  you  know.  The  blood  is  dripping  still." 

And  he  experienced  a  shock  when  Dinsmore  replied 
promptly,  "  True.  Frankly,  if  it  wasn't  for  that  I'd 
tell  you  to  go  to  the  devil,  for  I  could  knock  the  other 
affair  into  a  cocked  hat  with  one  hand,  as  I've  just 
shown  you."  It  shocked  McMurtry  as  an  exhibition 
of  chilled-steel  nerve.  He  thought,  "  Good  Lord,  this 
fellow's  an  ogre !  " 

"  There  is  one  more  angle,"  Dinsmore  went  on. 
"Blackmail  is  a  crime  that  everybody  hates  —  juries 
included.  You're  trying  to  blackmail  me.  When  you 
spring  your  story,  as  a  matter  of  course,  I  spring  mine. 
I  have  both  of  you  arrested  for  blackmail  and  I  press 
the  case  with  all  the  money  and  influence  I've  got.  It 
would  be  odd  if  I  didn't  land  you  both.  Admit  that  you 
get  me ;  admit,  too,  that  I'll  get  you.  Your  reputation 
is  bad,  McMurtry.  This  man's  is  probably  worse.  I 
seem  to  recall  something  about  him;  I  don't  remember 
just  what,  but  nothing  that  would  do  him  any  good  be- 
fore a  jury.  If  I  lose,  you  lose  too.  That's  flat." 

McMurtry  managed  to  smile.  "  We  stand  to  lose 
ten ;  you  stand  to  lose  a  million.  You  say  our  reputa- 
tions are  bad.  No  great  loss,  then.  But  your  reputa- 
tion is  good.  Quite  a  loss  to  you.  Probably  your 
family  would  rather  you  didn't  lose  it,"  he  added,  drily. 
"  And  as  to  the  blackmail  —  of  course,  that's  mere 
bluff.  There's  nothing  criminal  in  meeting  you  here, 
in  my  office.  We  can  tell  as  good  a  story  as  you  can.'* 


248  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Dinsmore  replied,  coolly,  "  All  the  same  the  black- 
mail charge  will  stick.  I  have  the  note  you  sent  me  at 
my  office  a  little  while  ago  —  some  circumstantial  evi- 
dence. Then  you  called  at  my  house.  I'd  no  idea  what 
you  wanted  to  say  to  me.  It's  true  if  I  had  known  I 
should  have  acted  differently.  But  I  knew  your  bad 
reputation  and  didn't  trust  you.  Of  course,  you  were 
entitled  to  no  consideration.  It's  a  fact  I  had  that 
conversation  overheard  through  the  telephone  —  by  a 
man  I  can  trust  absolutely.  I  give  you  my  word  I  can 
make  the  blackmail  charge  stick.  He  will  testify  if  I 
ask  him  to." 

The  statement  carried  conviction,  and  once  more 
both  his  hearers  felt  subtly  baffled  —  as  well  as  irritated. 
By  all  the  rules  this  man  ought  to  be  abject  and  in  a 
profound  agitation.  He  ought  to  be  pale  and  stam- 
mering and  otherwise  acting  like  a  normal  being  whose 
good  name  and  family  and  fortune  and  liberty  and  very 
neck  were  in  imminent  danger.  On  the  contrary  he 
looked  and  acted  exactly  like  a  man  playing  a  wary 
game,  or  transacting  a  difficult  piece  of  business,  with 
perfect  self-command  and  the  coolest  assurance.  It 
rather  daunted  them,  and  irritated  them,  too. 

McMurtry's  tone  showed  it  as  he  retorted,  aggres- 
sively, "  And  we  can  make  the  murder  charge  stick,  too. 
The  killing  of  Pomeroy  don't  depend  on  Dr.  Dill  and 
Peter  Sykes.  We  can  nab  Collingwood  in  half  an 
hour." 

"  That's  the  ticket,"  said  the  detective,  approvingly. 

It  seemed  to  impress  Dinsmore,  as  much  as  anything 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  249 

could,  yet  he  merely  pondered  it,  with  no  sign  of  agita- 
tion ;  and  after  a  moment  asked  calmly,  "  What  do  you 
want?" 

"  A  million  dollars,"  McMurtry  replied  instantly. 
Morden  seemed  minded  to  move  an  amendment,  but  re- 
strained himself;  and  for  a  tense  moment  both  of  them 
held  their  breaths  with  their  eyes  intent  on  Dinsmore. 
This  was  the  cast  of  the  die ;  and  they  felt  an  exhilarat- 
ing relief  when  Dinsmore  merely  observed: 

"  That's  a  good  deal  of  money." 

"  Cheap  at  the  price,"  McMurtry  replied. 

But  if  they  felt  that  they  had  won  the  stake,  Dins- 
more  rather  dashed  them  again  by  saying :  "  As  I  told 
you,  I'm  going  to  clean  this  up  once  for  all  and  make 
an  end  of  it  —  pay  or  fight  and  have  done  with  it." 

"  Oh,  come  now,  Dinsmore,"  McMurtry  urged,  with 
a  reasonable  man's  natural  annoyance  at  the  repetition 
of  an  absurd  statement.  "  You  know  that's  all  bunk 
and  you  know  we  know  it.  We  let  you  talk  if  you  want 
to;  but  when  you  talk  of  fighting  it's  just  bunk.  You 
simply  can't  afford  it  —  Alfred  Dinsmore  with  this 
mess  on  his  head !  Two  murders  and  the  blackmail 
you've  been  paying  for  years !  Fighting  is  all  rot. 
You  can't  afford  it  at  any  price." 

Dinsmore  answered  quietly,  "  You're  wrong,  Mc- 
Murtry. I  can  afford  it  if  I  make  up  my  mind  to. 
Some  situations  are  so  unbearable  that  a  man  can  afford 
anything  to  get  out  of  them.  There's  one  point  that 
maybe  you  haven't  thought  of.  I  can  beat  you  to  it. 
I  can  dictate  a  confession  as  I  leave  this  room  —  give 


250  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

it  to  the  press  and  wire  it  to  the  governor  of  Nebraska 
and  take  the  next  train  out  there  to  stand  trial.  You 
probably  know  how  much  that  would  count  for,  coming 
from  a  man  in  my  position.  Thirty  one  years  is  a  long 
time.  I  don't  believe  I'd  have  much  to  fear  from  a 
jury.  There  are  situations  in  which  a  man  can  afford 
anything.  I  tell  you  I'm  going  to  clean  this  up  once 
for  all  and  be  done  with  it." 

Once  more  they  felt  daunted ;  the  man's  nerve  seemed 
equal  to  anything. 

"  A  million  dollars  will  clean  it  up  in  much  pleasanter 
fashion,"  McMurtry  reminded  him.  "  A  million  ain't 
so  much  to  you." 

"  A  million  is  a  good  deal  of  money,"  Dinsmore  re- 
plied. "  I  propose  to  know  exactly  what  I  pay  it  for. 
Your  case  hangs  on  this  doctor.  I  want  to  know  just 
what  he's  prepared  to  say." 

"  I've  told  you,"  McMurtry  said.  "  He's  prepared 
to  swear  you're  the  man  he  treated  in  Sykes'  house  that 
night." 

"  I  propose  to  know  that,"  said  Dinsmore.  "  I  pro- 
pose to  know  that  you've  got  the  doctor.  You  say  so, 
but  your  say-so  is  hardly  good  for  a  million  dollars 
cash.  I  told  you  over  the  'phone  that  I  wouldn't  deal 
with  you  unless  I  knew  you  had  the  doctor  and  what  he 
was  prepared  to  swear  to.  I  meant  it.  Fetch  your 
doctor  here,  where  he  can  look  at  me  and  I  can  look 
at  him.  Let  me  hear  just  what  he's  prepared  to  swear 
to.  Then  we'll  go  ahead."  He  gave  the  lawyer  a  sar- 
castic little  smile  and  added  drily,  "  It's  your  own  of- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  251 

fice.  You're  two  to  one  or  better.  There's  nothing 
for  you  to  be  afraid  of  —  if  you've  really  got  the 
man." 

Morden  rose  to  the  taunt  promptly,  saying,  "  All 
right !  We'll  show  him  to  you." 

Dr.  Dill,  in  fact,  was  then  in  the  building  under  the 
capable  eye  of  Mr.  Tanner,  for  after  deliberating  on 
Dinsmore's  message  they  had  decided  to  have  him  at 
hand.  As  he  spoke,  Morden  arose  and  left  the  room. 

McMurtry  found  it  somewhat  embarrassing  to  be 
thus  left  alone  with  Dinsmore,  with  nothing  to  say,  and 
he  furtively  watched  the  enemy,  while  the  enemy  studied 
the  pattern  of  the  wall  paper.  Almost  preternaturally 
composed,  the  enemy  seemed;  his  eyes  were  not  rest- 
less ;  his  hands  lay  motionless  on  the  edge  of  the  table. 
A  recollection  subtly  afflicted  the  lawyer's  nerves  —  the 
recollection  of  his  encounter  with  Dinsmore,  in  the  lat- 
ter's  library,  night  before  last.  As  though  in  a  poker 
game,  they  had  matched  nerves,  and  McMurtry's  were 
still  raw  from  the  collision.  Three  or  four  long  min- 
utes —  of  subtle  disquietude  on  the  lawyer's  part  — 
drew  themselves  out.  Then  Morden  returned,  accom- 
panied by  Dr.  Dill.  As  the  burly,  belligerent  detective 
stepped  in,  McMurtry  experienced  a  sense  of  relief. 

They  had  not  thought  it  worth  while,  as  yet,  to  renew 
the  doctor's  wardrobe  very  much.  He  was  still  wearing 
the  greasy  and  threadbare  Prince  Albert  coat  and  still 
presented  the  same  general  appearance  of  a  human 
derelict  picked  at  random  off  a  junk  heap.  His  blood- 
shot eyes  were  rather  filmy  and  he  confronted  Dinsmore 


252  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

across  the  table  with  a  fixed,  vacuous  smile.  Dinsmore 
surmised  that  he  had  been  given  a  drug. 

"  Is  that  the  man,  Doctor  ?  "  Morden  asked,  after 
the  two  had  confronted  each  other  a  moment. 

Dr.  Dill  turned  the  dim  eyes  and  slight,  vacuous  smile 
to  the  questioner  and  replied,  "  Yes,  sir ;  that's  the  man. 
No  doubt  about  it." 

Dinsmore  thought,  "  He's  got  the  lesson  by  heart ; 
and  said  aloud,  "  You  recognize  me,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  doctor  replied  promptly,  with  no 
change  in  facial  expression.  "  I  treated  you  for  a  gun- 
shot wound  in  Peter  Sykes'  house  at  Billingtown  the 
night  the  bank  was  robbed." 

"You're  prepared  to  swear  to  that?"  Dinsmore 
asked. 

The  doctor  gave  a  palsied  little  nod  and  answered  at 
once,  "  Yes,  sir ;  prepared  to  swear  to  it  anywhere.  I 
remember  you  well." 

He  kept  his  dim  eyes  on  Dinsmore  as  he  spoke,  and 
the  latter  realized  that  he  would  make  a  presentable 
witness.  "  Very  well,"  he  said ;  "  swear  to  it  now." 

Not  understanding  what  he  meant,  lawyer  and  detec- 
tive looked  at  him  questioningly ;  and  Dr.  Dill  —  as 
though  a  line  had  been  spoken  that  was  not  set  down  in 
his  part  —  looked  up  at  Morden,  standing  beside  him, 
for  guidance. 

"  He  says  he'll  swear  to  it,  but  I  want  to  know 
whether  he  really  will  raise  his  right  hand  and  take  an 
oath,"  Dinsmore  explained  to  McMurtry.  "  Let  him 
take  an  oath  right  now  —  if  he's  really  as  ready  as  he 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  253 

says.  Take  a  sheet  of  paper  there  and  draw  up  an 
affidavit  —  you'll  know  the  proper  form.  'I  do 
solemnly  swear  that  at  Billingtown,  Nebraska,  on  the 
night  in  September,  1881,  when  the  First  National  Bank 
was  robbed  and  the  cashier  killed,  I  treated  a  young  man 
for  gunshot  wound  at  the  house  of  Peter  Sykes.  This 
man  was  about  five  feet,  ten  inches  tall  and  weighed 
about  a  hundred  and  sixty  pounds.  He  had  blue-grey 
eyes  and  was  smooth  shaven.  His  chin  had  been  broken 
and  there  was  a  strongly-marked,  irregular  scar  across 
it.  He  was  known  as  Tom  Wilson.  I  attended  him 
several  days  and  had  a  good  opportunity  to  observe 
him.  He  is  the  same  man  who  is  now  known  as  Alfred 
Dinsmore.  I  am  positive  of  that,  so  help  me  God.' 
You  know  the  form.  .Go  ahead;  write  it  out.  I  sup- 
pose you've  got  a  notary  public  in  the  office  who  can 
take  the  oath.  Let  this  man  raise  his  right  hand  and 
swear  to  that  —  so  help  him  God.  I'll  believe  he's 
really  ready  to  swear  to  it  when  I  see  him  do  that  — 
but  not  before." 

That  seemed  somewhat  childish  both  to  the  lawyer 
and  the  detective,  yet  they  knew  there  were  simple- 
minded  folk  to  whom  an  oath  —  that  legal  form  of 
raising  the  right  hand  and  repeating  "  So  help  me 
God  " —  was  still  a  fearsome  thing.  Perhaps  Dins- 
more  entertained  a  superstition  of  that  kind  himself,  or 
perhaps  he  believed  that  Dr.  Dill  did.  At  any  rate  it 
was  easy  enough  to  satisfy  him.  McMurtry,  with  his 
twinkling  smile,  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him,  took 
up  a  pen  and  wrote  rapidly  for  sixty  seconds.  Having 


254  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

glanced  over  what  he  had  written,  he  handed  it  to  the 
doctor,  saying,  "  Read  that  over,  and  sign  it  if  it  is 
true." 

Dinsmore  rather  doubted  that  the  doctor  read  it, 
but  the  doctor  said,  "  Yes,  sir ;  it's  true,"  and  shakily 
affixed  his  signature.  Covering  the  body  of  the  affi- 
davit with  a  blank  sheet,  McMurtry  then  called  in  a 
notary  from  the  outer  office  in  whose  presence  the  doc- 
tor duly  raised  his  right  hand  and  took  the  prescribed 
oath.  The  notary,  who  was  also  McMurtry's  law 
clerk,  affixed  his  seal  and  signature  and  withdrew. 

"  You  have  seen  him  swear  to  it,"  McMurtry  ob- 
served to  Dinsmore,  with  satisfaction. 

Dinsmore  reached  his  hand  for  the  paper.  Mc- 
Murtry passed  it  to  him  and  Dinsmore  read  it  over 
carefully. 

"  That  point  is  settled,"  he  announced  calmly.  "  I'm 
satisfied  as  to  Dr.  Dill.  We'll  go  ahead.  I  suppose 
we  needn't  detain  the  doctor  longer  this  morning." 

"  No,"  said  McMurtry,  and  Morden  led  the  doctor 
out,  returning  him  to  his  guardian.  Dinsmore  was 
still  holding  the  affidavit  and  contemplating  it  as  the 
detective  left  the  room.  When  the  door  closed,  he 
folded  it  coolly  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

That  action  struck  the  lawyer  unpleasantly.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  then  that  they  would  better  have  kept  it 
in  their  own  hands;  but  after  all  there  could  probably 
be  no  harm  in  Dinsmore's  having  it,  and  Dinsmore  was 
again  composedly  studying  the  pattern  of  the  wall 
paper. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  255 

Morden  returned  and  resumed  his  seat  at  the  table, 
expectantly ;  but  for  a  moment  no  one  spoke  and  it  was 
the  detective  who  broke  the  silence,  impatiently: 
"  Well,  it's  your  move." 

Dinsmore  turned  gravely  to  the  lawyer :  "  Mc- 
Murtry,  if  I  pay  you  a  million  dollars  will  that  settle 
it  ?  Will  you  let  me  absolutely  alone  afterwards  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  lawyer  promptly,  and  Morden 
chimed  in  cheerfully,  "  Sure !  That  settles  it  forever." 

"  Of  course,"  Dinsmore  explained,  "  I  can't  raise  a 
million  dollars  cash  in  five  minutes.  It  takes  some 
time." 

"  Give  you  till  noon,"  said  the  detective  promptly. 

"  It  will  have  to  be  longer  than  that,"  Dinsmore  re- 
plied. He  deliberated  a  moment  and  inquired  of  the 
lawyer,  "  Probably  certificates  of  deposit,  issued  by  the 
Consolidated  Bank,  would  be  acceptable." 

"  Certainly,"  said  McMurtry. 

Dinsmore  considered  again  and  said,  "  Meet  me  there 
at  three  o'clock  tomorrow." 

"  Won't  do,"  Morden  growled.  "  It's  got  to  be  to- 
day." 

"  Why  ?  "  Dinsmore  asked. 

Morden  glowered  at  him  and  repeated,  "  Because  I've 
got  my  mitts  on  James  Collingwood  now  and  I  don't 
propose  to  let  him  get  away." 

"  Of  course,  you  can  keep  watch  of  him,"  Dinsmore 
answered.  "  Men  can't  disappear  in  forty-eight  hours. 
Raising  a  million  dollars  takes  some  time.  Three 
o'clock  tomorrow."  He  made  that  a  sort  of  ultimatum. 


256  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  No,  sir ! "  the  detective  flung  back.  "  It's  got  to 
be  today." 

"  That's  out  of  the  question,"  Dinsmore  replied 
calmly.  "  Three  o'clock  tomorrow  is  the  earliest." 

"  Then  I'll  pinch  James  Collingwood  in  twenty  min- 
utes," Morden  retorted,  scowling. 

But  McMurtry  felt  uneasily  that  this  was  a  matching 
of  nerves  over  again  and  put  it,  soothingly,  "  Two  hun- 
dred thousand  down  and  the  balance  day  after  tomor- 
row." 

"  You've  had  seventy-five  thousand  already,"  Dins- 
more  reminded  him  —  and  caught  a  surprised  and 
ominous  glance  which  Morden  threw  at  his  partner. 
So  he  added,  "  Meet  me  at  three  o'clock  tomorrow  at 
the  Consolidated  Bank.  Come  down  stairs  to  the  safe 
deposit  vaults.  I'll  have  a  private  room  there.  Ask 
the  guard  for  me." 

Morden  was  glowering,  and  exclaimed  angrily,  "  It 
won't  do !  Money  down  today  or  I'll  nab  Collingwood." 

Dinsmore  stood  up  composedly  and  replied,  "  I've 
said  all  I  have  to  say.  Three  o'clock  tomorrow  after- 
noon. If  you  insist  on  fighting,  we'll  just  fight  it  out. 
Of  course  I  know  you.  You  want  money.  Ruining  me 
and  getting  no  money  yourselves  isn't  your  game.  It's 
the  money  you  want.  A  million  dollars  will  not  come 
your  way  every  day.  You'll  not  spill  the  story  —  and 
the  money  along  with  it.  You're  too  sensible.  Meet 
me  at  the  bank." 

With  that  he  put  on  his  hat  and  walked  out  of  the 
room. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  257 

Morden  glared  at  his  retreating  back  and  when  the 
closed  door  hid  it,  turned  to  McMurtry  and  uttered  a 
good  many  words,  scarcely  one  of  which  was  printable. 

McMurtry  shook  his  head  and  remarked,  "  A  hard 
customer !  A  tough  nut  to  crack,  sure's  you're  alive. 
His  nerve  beats  me."  But  he  immediately  turned  to 
the  more  cheering  aspect  of  the  matter  and  said  con- 
fidently, "  Why,  let  him  bluff  a  little,  if  he  wants  to ! 
What  does  it  amount  to?  We've  got  him  cinched  and 
he  knows  it.  He's  got  to  come  across.  Let  him  play 
with  the  line  a  little  if  he  wants  to.  He  can't  get 
away." 

Morden  also  contemplated  that  more  satisfactory  as- 
pect; but  a  recollection  diverted  his  attention  from  it. 
He  glowered  at  the  lawyer  and  said  menacingly,  "  So 
you're  holding  out  seventy-five  thousand  on  me,  eh?  " 

McMurtry  had  hoped  that  would  be  forgotten.  He 
really  felt  embarrassed  —  at  being  caught  —  but  tried 
to  hide  it  with  a  laugh.  "  Well,  I'm  entitled  to  a  little 
retainer  fee,  you  know,"  he  said. 

"  Retainer  your  grandmother,"  the  detective  replied 
rudely.  "  That  seventy-five  comes  out  of  your  share. 
And  a  damned  good  thing,"  he  added,  still  more  rudely, 
"  that  I  was  here  today  or  you'd  double-crossed  me 
again." 

"  Why,  no,  I  wouldn't,  Jake,"  the  lawyer  replied,  like 
virtue  maligned.  "  Pshaw !  What's  seventy-five  thou- 
sand? If  he  comes  across  for  one  million,  he'll  come 
across  for  another." 

"  You  bet  he  will,"  the  detective  assented  ominously. 


258  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Recalling  Dinsmore's  contemptuous  treatment  of  them, 

he  added,  "  And  he'll  do  it  very  soon,  too,  the " 

There  followed  many  more  unprintable  words. 

That  was  the  tack  McMurtry  wanted  to  keep  on. 
"  Lord,  man,  it's  a  cinch !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Millions  ! 
Think  of  it !  We've  got  a  pipe  line  to  the  national 
treasury.  It's  a  bear-cat !  That's  what  it  is  —  a 
bear-cat ! " 

Morden,  however,  was  not  to  be  entirely  diverted 
from  a  less  pleasant  train  of  thought.  "  That's  always 
the  trouble,"  he  ruminated  rather  gloomily ;  "  some- 
body's bound  to  double-cross.  You  get  the  best  kind 
of  a  scheme  going  and  then  somebody  plays  yellow  dog 
with  it." 

But  insults,  open  or  covert,  could  not  provoke  diplo- 
matic McMurtry  into  a  quarrel  with  his  partner  then. 
He  repeated,  "  It's  a  bear-cat !  We've  got  him  cinched, 
Jake !  A  million  tomorrow  —  and  more  to  follow ! 
It's  good  enough  for  anybody !  " 

The  detective  yielded  so  far  as  to  say,  "  Well,  it 
looks  pretty  good  to  me.  All  the  same,  I'll  keep  a 
finger  on  Collingwood  until  the  money's  paid  down." 

"  A  good  idea,"  McMurtry  conceded.  "  But  be 
careful,  Jake.  Don't  start  anything.  We've  got  our 
fingers  on  the  money  now.  Don't  spill  it." 

"  Don't  be  scared  of  me  —  or  anybody  else,"  Morden 
replied;  and  with  that  not  very  complimentary  sugges- 
tion the  partners  separated. 


CHAPTER  X 

AT  a  quarter  of  five  Louise's  electric  wheeled  up 
to  the  curb  at  the  side  door  of  the  Bank  of 
Elsmoor.  Ned  Proctor  had  stepped  out  of  the  door  a 
minute  before  and  was  waiting  for  her  —  obedient  to 
her  telephone  message.  She  opened  the  car  door  for 
him  and  gave  him  a  hand  as  he  climbed  in ;  but  it  struck 
him  that  she  was  uncommonly  grave. 

She  directed  the  car  mechanically  back  to  Sheridan 
Road  and  turned  south,  keeping  near  the  curb  and  driv- 
ing very  slowly ;  but  even  at  that  pace  she  had  to  keep 
her  eyes  ahead,  on  the  road,  most  of  the  time.  When 
they  were  finally  set  in  their  course  she  looked  around 
at  him,  very  gravely  indeed,  and  said: 

"  Ned,  will  you  tell  me  the  exact  truth  ?  " 

It  was  a  plea  and  he  answered  promptly,  "  I  surely 
will,  Lou." 

"  You  said  something  to  me  a  little  while  ago  —  that 
you  were  being  watched.  I  thought  afterwards  you 
meant  you  and  I  were  being  watched.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  exactly  what  you  meant." 

"  Oh,  I  supposed  somebody  was  keeping  tab  on  me," 
he  replied  at  once ;  "  probably  on  account  of  that  old 
business  of  father's  and  so  on.  It  might  be  the  State's 
Attorney's  office,  you  know.  My  friends  were  trying 
to  get  them  to  quash  that  indictment  against  me  —  wipe 

it  off  the  slate  for  good.     Maybe  they  were  keeping 

259 


260  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

tab  on  me  to  see  whether  they  ought  to  do  it  or  not. 
Of  course,  if  they  were  watching  me  and  you  were  along 
—  why,  naturally,  they'd  be  watching  you,  too.  You 
might  figure  in  whatever  reports  they  made,  don't  you 
see.  It's  nothing  to  worry  about,  Lou." 

He  said  it  readily,  looking  down  the  road ;  but  some- 
how it  didn't  ring  true  to  her.  It  sounded  like  polite 
subterfuge.  So  she  replied  with  a  more  intimate,  im- 
pulsive plea: 

"  You  mustn't  try  to  fool  me,  Ned  —  saving  me,  or 
saving  anybody  else.  I'm  banking  on  you."  There 
was  a  little  appealing  cry  in  her  voice  as  she  said  it. 
"  I'm  in  trouble.  I  don't  know  what  to  do.  You're 
not  telling  me  all.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  just  what 
made  you  say  that  —  just  what  you  meant.  You 
must,  Ned !  "  She  had  fairly  let  the  car  stop  then  and 
was  looking  into  his  face,  appealing  and  troubled. 
"  Don't  you  go  back  on  me." 

It  was,  naturally,  a  very  disturbing  plea  yet  he  tried 
to  ward  it  off:  "Why  —  it's  really  nothing,  Lou. 
.  .  .  Just  as  I  say,  somebody's  been  watching  me  —  but 
it's  nothing  to  worry  you." 

"  But  I've  got  to  know !  "  she  insisted.  "  I'm  in 
trouble.  Won't  you?  We're  old  friends.  .  .  .  Ned, 
please  tell  me  the  exact  truth !  I  must  know !  " 

It  was  hard  to  resist  that.  He  looked  into  her 
pleading  face,  his  face  perplexed,  and  said  ineffectually, 
"  I'd  do  what  I  could  for  you,  Lou.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know  something  happened  —  something  made  you 
say  that  to  me,"  she  urged.  "  You'd  save  somebody 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  261 

else,  but  I  want  saving  myself,  Ned.  .  .  .  Won't  you  — 
for  me  —  please?  " 

It  wasn't  in  him  to  resist  longer.  "  Yes  ;  I'll  tell  you ; 
you  come  first,"  he  said.  Then  he  looked  down  the 
road  a  moment,  passed  his  hand  over  his  thick  hair 
and  took  another  moment  to  arrange  the  facts  in  his 
mind: 

"  There's  a  young  fellow  in  the  bank  —  Fred  Per- 
kins is  his  name.  He's  a  good  youngster  and  he  likes 
me.  .  .  .  Maybe  his  conduct  out  of  business  hours  isn't 
just  what  a  bank  clerk's  ought  to  be,  you  know.  In 
fact,  he's  quite  a  suburban  sport.  Nothing  very 
wrong  about  it,  or  about  him,  you  understand.  But 
probably  he  knows  more  about  the  road  houses  and  pool 
rooms  over  at  Leedsdale  than  a  right  young  bank  clerk 
ought  to  know.  It's  about  what  I  was  doing  at  his 
age,  only  he's  in  the  fifty-cent  row  instead  of  up  in 
front. 

"  Well,  Fred  came  to  me  one  day,  meaning  to  do  me  a 
good  favour.  Seems  there's  a  fellow  around  Elsmoor 
named  Hines.  I  never  heard  of  him  before.  Fred  says 
he  used  to  work  in  that  billiard  parlour  back  of  Macy's. 
He's  older  than  Fred  —  thirty  or  more  —  and  not  much 
account,  I  guess.  Over  at  Leedsdale  one  night  he  got 
to  talking  to  Fred  and  another  young  chap.  Fred  says 
he  was  comfortably  soused  at  the  time.  He  got  to- 
blowing,  you  know  —  bragging.  He  told  the  boys  he 
was  a  detective  now  —  regular  professional.  That  in- 
terested them.  You  can  imagine  it  was  a  more  or  less 
beery  conversation  all  around.  Finally  Hines  told  the 


262  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

boys  he  was  shadowing  me.  .  .  .  Yes,  Lou  —  you  and 
me.  That's  what  he  told  them  —  in  alcoholic  confi- 
dence, he  being  all  swelled  up  with  the  notion  of  his 
importance  and  anxious  to  impress  the  youngsters. 
,.  .  .  Regular  detective,  you  see  —  dime  novel  stuff. 
That's  what  he  told  them. 

"  As  I  told  you,  Fred  is  fond  of  me.  When  he 
thought  it  over  afterwards,  he  got  the  idea  that  I  ought 
to  know  about  it;  a  good,  romantic  kid,  you  under- 
stand, who  wanted  to  save  his  friend.  So  he  did  some 
amateur  detecting  on  his  own  account.  He  got  hold 
of  Hines  again  when  there  was  no  beer  in  the  conversa- 
tion and  pointed  out  that  he  was  in  a  good  position  to 
watch  me,  being  with  me  in  the  bank  all  day.  He  sug- 
gested that  if  there  was  any  suitable  reward  in  sight  he 
might  enlist  as  Hines'  assistant.  Well,  Hines  agreed 
to  that  and  talked  it  all  over  with  him  in  perfect 
sobriety.  He  didn't  say  who  was  hiring  him  —  only 
that  it  was  a  regular  detective  agency  down  town.  The 
upshot  of  it  was  that  Fred  felt  perfectly  sure  the  other 
talk  hadn't  been  just  beery  brag;  but  that  Hines  was 
really  employed  by  a  detective  agency  to  watch  me  — 
and  you.  So  then  Fred  came  to  me  —  to  put  me  on 
guard,  you  see.  That's  the  exact  truth,  Lou." 

She  had  turned  a  bit  pale  and  was  looking  straight 
ahead,  driving  very  slowly. 

"  I  wanted  to  know,"  she  murmured.  "  I  had  to 
know.  It  was  fine  of  you  to  tell  me." 

"  Naturally  —  it  was  something  I  couldn't  very  well 
—  more  than  barely  hint  at,"  he  observed,  also  looking 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  263 

straight  ahead  for  the  situation  bristled  with  embar- 
rassments. 

"  I  suppose  not,"  she  said  absently. 

He  gave  a  little  sigh  and  continued,  labouring  with 
embarrassment,  "  Naturally  I  couldn't.  .  .  .  Now  that 
it's  come  out  —  you  see  how  it  is,  Lou.  I  get  you 
into  trouble.  It  isn't  worth  your  while.  It  just  moans 
trouble  for  you.  .  .  .  It's  been  awfully  fine  of  you  — 
mighty  fine  of  you  —  coming  around  to  see  me  and  so 
on.  That's  been  fine.  But  you  see  how  it  is.  I'd  liked 
to  have  told  you  before,  but  naturally  I  couldn't.  It 
just  means  trouble  for  you." 

There  was  the  question,  Who  had  set  a  spy  upon 
them  —  with  the  humiliation  for  her  which  that  ques- 
tion naturally  implied.  He  was  keeping  as  far  away 
from  that  as  he  could.  There  was  a  little  silence,  while 
she  drove  mechanically,  staring  straight  ahead. 

"  If  I  let  you  in  for  —  anything  disagreeable  —  I'd 
want  to  go  jump  in  the  lake,"  he  said.  "  What  would 
be  the  use?  You've  chosen  the  way  you  want  to  go. 
It's  all  right  for  you  to  choose.  I'm  out  of  it.  It  isn't 
worth  your  while  to  get  yourself  into  a  mess  about  me. 
.  .  .  It's  a  poor  subject  to  talk  about,  Lou.  I'd  have 
given  a  leg  if  this  thing  hadn't  come  up  at  all.  But  it 
has  come  up,  so  we  may  as  well  look  it  in  the  face.  It's 
been  mighty  fine  of  you;  but,  you  see,  it  isn't  worth 
your  while.  Just  cut  me  out,  Lou.  Stick  to  the  ticket 
you've  picked  out." 

Without  answering  that  suggestion,  she  said  ab- 
ruptly, "  My  father  must  have  done  this." 


264  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

She  obviously  meant  that  her  father  must  have  hired 
the  spy.  With  astonishment,  he  considered  it  a  moment 
and  then  protested,  "  No ;  you  must  be  wrong.  You 
must  be,  Lou ! "  He  considered  it  again,  and  flung 
away  the  imputation,  decisively,  "  You're  certainly 
wrong.  It  could  never  have  been  your  father.  It's 
rotten  enough  to  think  of  anybody  doing  it.  But 
your  father.  .  .  .  No,  he  never  did  it.  It  wouldn't  be 
like  him." 

"  It  was  my  father,"  she  repeated.  "  It  must  have 
been." 

Incredulously,  very  much  as  though  she  had  affirmed 
that  her  father  had  given  her  a  beating,  he  considered 
her  astonishing  assertion ;  but  as  her  father  came  up  in 
his  mind,  he  could  not  fit  him  into  that  role. 

"  You're  wrong,  Lou ;  you  must  be,"  he  declared. 
"  You're  certainly  wrong." 

"  Why  do  you  say  so?  "  she  asked. 

He  answered  plumply :  "  Whoever  did  that  was  a 
sneak.  Your  father's  no  sneak." 

She  recalled,  with  a  touch  of  bitterness,  that  her  fa- 
ther had  not  been  so  kind  in  his  judgment  of  the  young 
man  who  was  now  defending  him. 

"  See  here,  Lou,"  he  urged,  "  we  may  be  all  wrong 
about  this.  It's  rotten  enough  to  think  it  of  any- 
body." By  anybody  he  meant,  of  course,  Lowell  Win- 
throp.  "It  may  have  been  just 'some  sneaking  busy- 
body; maybe  somebody  with  an  interest  in  Winthrop, 
you  know,  and  wanting  to  break  it  off  —  between  you 
and  him.  Anybody  can  go  hire  a  detective;  doesn't 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  265 

cost  a  great  deal,  either.  Probably  it  was  just  some 
sneaking  busybody." 

That  might  have  sounded  more  plausible,  only  she 
knew  that  her  own  maid  had  been  hired  to  spy,  too, 
which  looked  like  a  more  elaborate  system  of  espionage 
than  a  mere  busybody  would  have  embarked  on. 

"  Forget  that  notion  about  your  father,"  he  coun- 
selled her. 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  should  be  defending  him," 
she  said.  "  He  never  took  much  pains  to  defend  you." 

That  was  a  very  intimate  sort  of  thing  to  say.  It 
boldly  put  him  closer  to  her  than  her  own  father,  and 
it  made  his  heart  beat. 

"  I'll  tell  you,"  he  said,  after  a  moment.  *'  I've  had 
a  thundering  good  licking.  Plenty  of  people  will  tell 
you  that  a  man  no  older  than  I  am  ought  not  to  take  a 
licking.  I  thought  so  myself  once.  But  if  a  five-ton 
truck  has  run  over  you,  what  you  think  it  ought  to  do 
to  you  don't  make  much  difference.  You're  smashed 
up  whether  you  ought  to  be  or  not.  That  day  when 
they  took  father  down  to  Joliet  —  well,  probably  you 
can  imagine  it.  I  was  pretty  well  smashed  up.  .  .  . 

"  And  then,  after  that  —  you  see,  I  found  out  that 
I  was  to  be  turned  down  —  I  was  out  of  it.  ...  Prob- 
ably I  resented  that  for  a  little  while  as  much  as  any- 
body would  under  the  circumstances.  But  it  kept  run- 
ning over  me.  There  was  my  father  in  prison.  I  was 
indicted  myself  —  a  trial  coming  along  when  like  enough 
I'd  join  him.  It  kept  running  over  me.  .  .  .  Finally, 
I  just  took  the  licking;  I  threw  up  my  hands.  .  .  ." 


266  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

There  was  something  in  the  electrified  air  between 
them  which  said  that  he  hadn't  really  told  the  story 
yet;  it  was  incomplete.  He  looked  down  at  the  crown 
of  the  straw  hat  on  his  knees  and  compressed  his  lips. 

"  Probably  you  know  I  hoped  to  marry  you.  That 
was  what  I  couldn't  give  up.  But  it  kept  running  over 
me.  What  business  had  I  to  hope  that?  Your  fa- 
ther was  right  enough.  I  mean  he  had  a  right  to  take 
that  course.  By  all  the  rules  I  was  out  of  the  game. 
Why  not  be  a  square  sport  —  square  to  you,  even  sup- 
posing there'd  ever  been  a  time  when  I  might  have  stood 
a  show  ?  You  let  me  know  I  was  out  of  the  game.  You 
had  a  right  to.  Of  course,  if  you'd  cared  —  I  mean 
cared  really  —  it  would  have  been  different.  But  you 
didn't  —  and  what  was  the  use  of  sticking  around  and 
gumming  things  up.  I  took  my  licking.  .  .  . 

"  It's  true,  I  cared  more  for  you  than  anything  else. 
I  said  I'd  keep  that,  you  see  —  not  gum  anything  up. 
I'd  be  off  on  the  back  row  of  the  bleachers  cheering, 
with  nothing  mean  on  my  conscience.  I  took  the  lick- 
ing. .  .  .  That's  about  the  way  it  stands,  Lou,"  he 
added  as  though  he  had  made  an  admirably  lucid,  co- 
herent statement.  He  looked  around  at  her,  continu- 
ing, "  So  I'm  saying  to  you  now,  don't  think  your  fa- 
ther put  spies  on  you.  That  isn't  true.  Don't  think 
it.  I  don't  want  that  in  your  mind." 

Her  heart  was  beating  at  the  base  of  her  throat. 
Looking  ahead  she  said,  "  I'm  going  to  see  you  as  often 
as  I  like." 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  267 

"  You're  terribly  sweet,  Lou,"  he  said,  helplessly, 
from  his  end  of  the  seat. 

"  I'm  not  engaged  to  Lowell  Winthrop  any  more," 
she  said,  her  eyes  ahead,  although  the  car  was  barely 
creeping  and  she  was  not  much  aware  of  the  road  any- 
way. "  The  engagement  is  broken." 

He  stared  at  her  and  heard  himself  saying,  "  Would 
there  be  any  chance  for  me?  " 

Then  she  was  saying,  "  I  like  you,  Ned  " ;  and  he  no- 
ticed how  the  half-opened  rose  bud  on  the  lapel  of  her 
jacket  rose  and  fell  with  the  labouring  of  her  breast. 

"  You  know  how  it  is,  Lou,"  he  said,  and  choked  a 
bit  over  the  name  that  time.  "  I've  got  no  money.  It's 
twenty-five  hundred  a  year  there  in  the  bank  and  my 
mother  to  support.  It  would  have  to  be  a  long  time. 
...  I  didn't  tell  you;  but  the  State's  Attorney  prom- 
ised to  quash  that  indictment  —  wipe  it  off  the  slate. 
.  .  .  You  know  how  I'm  situated.  ...  I  never  loved 
anybody  but  you." 

She  was  looking  stonily  down  the  road.  He  looked 
that  way,  too  —  off  into  space,  as  though  that  typified 
the  void  future  —  and  tried  to  get  himself  somewhat  in 
hand  to  present  the  case  candidly: 

"  It  wouldn't  be  fair,  or  decent.  I'm  mortgaged  up 
to  my  eyebrows  —  my  father's  name  and  his  debts  to 
the  savings  bank  depositors  —  over  seven  hundred  thou- 
sand. I'd  said  I  might  dig  myself  out  of  that  at  forty, 
or  forty-five  or  fifty.  Then  I'd  just  stand  at  taw,  you 
see.  It  wouldn't  be  decent  to  ask  it  of  you.  ...  As  I 


268  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

told  you,  I've  had  a  thundering  good  licking,  so  I  don't 
want  to  hurt  anybody  else  or  get  anybody  else  into  that 
hole  —  you,  of  all  the  people  in  the  world.  I  never 
loved  anybody  but  you.  But  it  wouldn't  be  decent. 
It  would  be  like  sticking  you  in  jail  for  twenty  years. 
Your  father  don't  like  me." 

He  kept  his  voice  steady  and  his  eyes  ahead,  and  had 
an  impression  that  he  had  presented  it  coherently. 

"  My  father  doesn't  count,"  she  retorted  with  a  sud- 
den passion.  "  He  shouldn't  have  interfered.  .  .  . 
Spying  on  me  is  unbearable !  I'll  not  stand  it." 

That  was  easier  to  talk  about  than  the  other,  and 
he  replied  earnestly,  "  I'm  sure  you're  wrong  about 
that,  Lou.  He  wouldn't  have  done  it.  The  engage- 
ment's broken  now ;  it  must  have  been  Winthrop  —  or 
some  of  his  family  that  wanted  to  break  it  up." 

At  that  she  looked  around  at  him,  her  brows  knitted, 
saying,  "  It  wasn't  only  this  that  you've  told  me  about. 
My  own  maid  is  spying  on  me  —  in  his  house.  I  know 
it."  Also  with  an  idea  of  being  coherent  she  continued : 
"  That's  why  I  had  to  know  —  from  you  —  know  what 
made  you  say  that  to  me.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  know 
the  truth  —  and  have  it  out.  I'll  not  stand  being  spied 
on  in  my  own  house.  Nobody  can  use  me  so.  I  wanted 
you  to  tell  me,  so  I  could  have  it  out.  I'm  going  to 
follow  it  through  now.  I  know  you  haven't  any  money, 
Ned.  That  doesn't  matter." 

More  than  her  voice,  which  she  strove  to  control,  or 
her  face,  the  motions  of  the  rosebud  showed  the  storm. 
And  in  whatever  other  respects  her  statement  lacked 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  269 

coherence,  the  words  "  That  doesn't  matter  "  were  suf- 
ficient; both  of  them  understood  what  that  meant. 

"  Let  me  talk  to  your  father,"  he  urged. 

"  No,  Ned,"  she  replied,  with  a  decision  as  sweet  as 
though  she  had  fallen  into  his  arms,  "  I  must  do  it  my- 
self." No  great  significance  could  be  recovered  from 
those  mere  words,  but  they  were  speaking  of  a  most  in- 
timate thing  —  her  relations  with  her  father  —  and  her 
way  of  speaking  took  him  into  the  heart  of  it.  Bride 
speaks  to  bridegroom  that  way.  It  was  as  though  she 
had  put  herself  into  his  arms,  but  he  had  not  so  much 
as  touched  her  hand.  And  for  an  excellent  reason. 
For  some  minutes,  then,  the  car  had  been  standing  still 
against  the  foliage  at  the  curb.  Other  vehicles  were 
swiftly  passing  in  either  direction  along  the  much-used 
thoroughfare.  The  occupants  of  those  other  vehicles 
naturally  looked  over  curiously  at  a  span  electric  car 
standing  at  the  curb  through  whose  shiny  glass  win- 
dows a  young  man  and  young  woman  were  seen  to  be 
conversing.  Merely  conversing,  in  that  situation,  at- 
tracted sufficient  attention;  and  Louise,  half  mechani- 
cally, started  the  electric  again. 

In  that  pause  of  three  or  four  minutes,  under  the 
eyes  of  passers-by,  a  tremendous  thing  had  happened, 
and  both  their  minds  were  under  its  spell. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  quarrel,  Ned,"  she  said  after  a 
long  moment.  "  I'm  going  to  find  out  —  and  have  it 
settled.  You  wait  until  you  hear  from  me." 

He  had  the  advantage  of  her  in  that  he  could  sit 
back  in  a  corner  of  the  seat  and  look  at  her  as  she 


270  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

drove.  "  I'm  mighty  good  at  this  kind  of  waiting, 
Lou,"  he  said,  and  laughed  in  fatuous  exultation.  But 
his  face  darkened  at  once  and  he  said  with  illogical  but 
poignant  remorse,  "  All  the  same,  it's  damnably  tough 
luck  for  you  —  just  like  sticking  you  in  jail."  He  felt 
that  an  heroic  nature  would  never  consent  to  her  making 
such  a  sacrifice  as  was  involved  in  an  engagement  to 
marry  him.  But  he  was  looking  at  her  all  the  time  and 
flesh  and  blood  —  at  any  rate  his  flesh  and  blood  — 
ruthlessly  vetoed  that  heroism.  Besides,  there  was  no 
engagement,  really. 

In  that  situation  there  could  hardly  be  one,  really; 
and  so  there  was  really  nothing  else  that  could  be  said 
just  then.  As  bride  and  groom  —  perhaps,  provision- 
ally —  they  rolled  on  in  a  happy,  troubled  silence,  and 
in  only  two  or  three  minutes  more  they  came  to  the 
intersection  of  that  street  up  which  stood  the  little 
cottage  in  which  he  and  his  mother  lived.  That  he 
should  alight  there  had  somehow  made  itself  understood 
in  both  their  minds  and  she  drew  up  to  the  curb  as 
though  they  had  verbally  agreed  upon  it. 

"  Wait  till  you  hear  from  me,"  she  said  again,  look- 
ing into  his  eyes  and  faintly  smiling. 

"  I  think  you're  wrong,  Lou,"  he  urged  anxiously  — 
meaning  about  her  father  and  the  spy,  as  she  under- 
stood,—  as  he  reached  to  open  the  car  door.     He  smiled 
at  her  and  added,  "  I  wouldn't  have  anybody  unkind 
to  anybody  today." 

She  stooped  a  little  toward  him,  her  eyes  aflood  with 
soft  light,  and  murmured,  "  I  know !  " 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  271 

For  a  short  moment  she  sat  in  the  car  looking  after 
him  as  he  walked  vigorously  up  the  street,  a  fullness  in 
her  throat.  Then  she  turned  and  drove  north,  the  car 
gaining  speed  under  her  hand  as  she  addressed  her  mind 
resolutely  to  the  business  ahead.  She  meant  to  know 

—  and  to  have  it  out,  once  for  all. 

Entering  the  house,  she  looked  about  her  and  glanced 
into  the  living-room  with  a  purposeful  eye,  like  a  gen- 
eral surveying  the  terrain  on  the  eve  of  action.  Going 
upstairs  and  down  the  hall  there,  she  also  took  note  of 
the  aspect  of  the  house.  In  her  own  sitting  room  she 
immediately  rang  for  her  maid,  and  closed  the  door  that 
led  into  the  bath  and  bedroom. 

When  Jenny  Dupee  stepped  in,  her  mistress  was  sit- 
ting over  by  a  window  with  a  beautifully  polished,  silver 
bound  wooden  casket  in  her  lap. 

"  Sit  down  here,  Jenny ;  I  want  to  talk  to  you,"  the 
mistress  said. 

The  thin,  dark  maid  crossed  the  room  obediently  and 
seated  herself,  her  hands  in  her  lap,  her  nervous  face 

—  with  little  veins  at  the  temples  that  somehow  made 
one  think  of  neuralgia  —  turned  to  her  mistress,  her 
heart  beating  fast  with  vague  apprehensions. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  "  Louise  asked,  with 
neither  friendliness  nor  hostility  in  her  voice,  but  only 
the  level  tone  that  expects  obedience. 

"  Three  years  in  February,  ma'am,"  said  Jenny 
promptly,  and  felt  relieved.  It  was  the  sort  of 
question  that  might  precede  a  discussion  of 
wages. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  You  know  I  will  do  as  I  say ;  my  word  is  good," 
Louise  continued  in  the  same  tone. 

"  Oh,  surely,  Miss  Louise !  No  one  would  doubt 
that,"  Jenny  replied,  surprised. 

"  You  are  not  rich?  You  would  like  some  money?  " 
The  questions  seemed  more  like  statements  of  open 
facts. 

"  Surely  I  would  like  some  money,"  Jenny  replied, 
puzzled  by  this  odd  approach  to  wages.  And  she  ex- 
plained, "  I  can  save  a  little.  It  is  not  much,  you  know. 
One  gets  older  all  the  time.  I  have  no  one  to  depend  on 
but  myself." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Louise.  "  I  am  going  to  give 
you  some  money  —  a  good  deal  of  money  —  perhaps." 

The  little  veins  in  the  maid's  sallow  temples  dis- 
tended. Her  eyes  looked  as  nervous  as  a  trapped  ani- 
mal's. This  didn't  sound  like  wages. 

In  her  composed  voice,  looking  the  maid  calmly  in 
the  eye,  Louise  went  on: 

"  Somebody  has  hired  you  to  spy  on  me  —  open  my 
mail  and  so  forth.  I  have  watched  and  I  know  it." 
She  made  that  statement  with  a  quiet  assurance  that  had 
the  effect  of  forestalling  any  protest.  "  I  understand 
it  perfectly,  Jenny.  You  are  poor  and  have  to  work 
for  a  living  and  are  getting  along  in  years.  The  sav- 
ing is  slow.  Why  should  you  care  particularly  about 
me  when  you  know  I  would  discharge  you  tomorrow  if 
you  didn't  do  your  work  satisfactorily?  I  understand 
it.  I'm  not  scolding,  you  see." 

"  I  have  saved  only  twenty-eight  hundred  dollars," 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  273 

said  fluttered  Jenny  Dupee.  "  I  didn't  get  as  good 
wages  before  I  came  here.  I  am  thirty-five  years  old. 
No  one  wants  an  old  maid  unless  she  has  been  long  in 
the  family."  Her  startled  eyes  looked  as  though  she 
might  fly  away  and  she  spoke  with  a  kind  of  swift 
breathlessness ;  yet  she  seemed  to  be  meeting  her  mis- 
tress' frankness  with  equal  frankness. 

"  Certainly ;  I  understand  that,"  Louise  replied. 
"  I'm  not  scolding,  or  threatening.  But  you  wouldn't 
have  done  that  unless  some  one  paid  you  for  it.  I 
can  pay  you  more  than  any  one  else  will.  You  can 
make  more  by  working  for  me." 

She  opened  the  polished,  silver  bound  casket,  disclos- 
ing a  small  top  tray  full  of  glittering  things. 

*'  Probably  you  know  what  these  things  are  worth 
better  than  I  do."  Suggestively,  she  picked  up  a 
jewelled  brooch,  then  a  diamond  pin.  "  You  know  I 
will  do  as  I  say.  My  word  is  good.  Tell  me  who  hired 
you,  what  your  instructions  were  and  all  about  it. 
Satisfy  me  that  you  are  telling  the  truth  and  I  will  pay 
you  three  times  what  you  can  make  from  the  others. 
But  I  must  have  the  whole  truth,  Jenny.  Tell  me  from 
beginning  to  end  and  I  will  make  it  well  worth  your 
while." 

That  put  Jenny  Dupee  in  a  painful  quandary.  She 
knew  what  she  had  been  hired  to  find  out  —  those  things 
which  her  mysterious  employer  paid  her  seventy  dollars 
a  week  for  reporting.  But  she  also  knew  something  of 
far  greater  moment,  that  she  had  not  been  paid  to  find 
out  —  namely,  what  she  had  heard  as  she  lay  under  the 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

lounge  in  the  library  when  Mr.  Dinsmore  received  his 
unknown  caller.  That  knowledge  showed  her  that  the 
enterprise  in  which  she  was  playing  a  humble  role  ran 
into  astonishing  dimensions.  The  strange  caller  had 
coolly  mentioned  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dol- 
lars. Jenny's  painful  dilemma  was  as  to  how  she  could 
profit  by  her  unsuspected  knowledge.  The  idea  of  de- 
manding a  fairer  share  of  the  spoils  from  the  formid- 
able man  whom  she  had  met  on  the  street  corner  was 
rather  terrifying.  The  idea  of  attacking  Alfred  Dins- 
more  single-handed  was  more  terrifying.  How  and 
where  was  she  to  find  a  market  for  what  she  knew? 
That  was  her  dilemma.  But  her  mistress's  proposal 
suggested  a  market. 

With  a  little  tremulous  motion  of  her  body,  there- 
fore, and  bending  forward  slightly  in  her  chair,  she 
said,  "  It  is  worth  the  pearls." 

That  suggestion  struck  Louise,  not  with  indignation, 
but  with  surprise.  Her  maid  was  as  well  acquainted 
with  the  contents  of  this  polished  box  as  she  herself  was 
—  or  better.  It  held  jewellery  that  she  might  wear  at 
almost  any  time.  The  costlier,  more  rarely  used,  orna- 
ments were  in  a  securer  place  than  her  dressing-table. 
In  this  glittering  top  tray  lay  half  a  dozen  rings,  a 
brooch,  a  flexible  bracelet,  earrings,  slipper  buckles  all 
set  with  precious  stones.  Between  thumb  and  fore- 
finger one  might  pick  up  a  marketable  value  of  five 
thousand  dollars,  say.  Louise  had  supposed  a  market- 
able value  of  that  extent  would  be  sufficient. 

"  It  is   worth   the  pearls,   Miss  Louise,"  Jenny   re- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  275 

peated.  "  If  I  wished,  I  could  sell  it  to  some  one  else 
for  more  than  the  pearls." 

That  was  a  quite  astonishing  statement  to  Louise, 
and  she  looked  it. 

The  maid  was  bending  further  forward,  her  thin  body 
a-tremble.  "You  said  I  was  to  tell  you  all  —  just 
what  has  happened  and  all  about  it.  I  am  willing.  I 
will  tell  you  and  nobody  else.  It  is  worth  a  fortune  to 
me,  Miss  Louise.  The  others  expect  to  make  a  fortune. 
They  said  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  As 
I  said,  the  saving  is  slow  —  I  am  thirty-five.  It  is  a 
fortune  in  my  hand.  I  could  sell  it  to  them.  Give 
me  the  pearls.  I  will  tell  it  all  to  you  —  every  word. 
Then  I  will  go  away  and  say  nothing  to  anybody  else, 
ever." 

All  this  was  utterly  different  from  anything  Louise 
had  expected  to  hear  and  she  could  make  nothing  of  it. 
But  as  her  blue  eyes,  round  with  astonishment,  studied 
the  maid,  she  believed  Jenny  was  telling  the  truth. 
From  the  beginning  she  had  managed  the  affair  very 
much  as  her  father  would  have  managed  it  —  with  a 
composed  efficiency ;  no  outbursts  or  emotional  displays 
at  all,  but  a  cool  thrust  at  the  heart  of  her  target. 
Her  father  would  have  managed  it  very  much  the  same 
way.  She  liked  to  lay  bets  on  horse-races  and  nothing 
daunted  her  at  bridge.  In  a  way,  Jenny  was  tempting 
her  now  into  a  bigger  play,  for  higher  stakes,  than  she 
had  thought  of  in  opening  the  conversation.  Instead 
of  daunting  her,  it  stirred  the  paternal  blood  in  her 
veins.  So  she  lifted  the  tray  out  of  the  polished  box. 


276  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Among  other  articles  beneath  lay  a  string  of  pearls  — • 
not  a  long  string ;  but  of  fine,  perfectly  matched  stones. 
She  had  worn  it  as  a  girl  and  had  a  liking  for  it.  Its 
commercial  value  might  be  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
or  such  a  matter. 

"  You  will  say  yourself  that  it  is  worth  the  pearls," 
said  Jenny,  and  wetted  her  lips  with  the  tip  of  her 
tongue. 

"  If  it  is  worth  the  pearls,  I  will  give  them  to  you," 
said  Louise  with  the  milky  string  in  her  hand. 

"  If  you  say  it  is  not  worth  them,  you  can  make  me 
give  them  back,"  said  Jenny. 

With  a  touch  of  disdain  at  whatever  imputation  upon 
her  sportsmanly  honour  that  suggestion  might  imply, 
Louise  tossed  the  pearls  into  Jenny's  lap  and  Jenny  put 
a  long,  slim  hand  upon  them.  She  was  trembling;  but 
she  went  straight  at  the  business : 

"  It  was  about  four  weeks  ago.  A  woman  came  here 
to  the  house  —  to  the  back  door.  She  wanted  to  in- 
sure our  lives  —  a  very  smart  woman,  interesting  to 
talk  to.  She  came  three  times.  She  made  us  laugh. 
Then  she  talked  to  me  alone.  She  said  she  could  get 
me  three  times  as  much  wages  as  I  was  getting  here. 
I  met  her  over  town  and  she  talked  to  me  a  long  time. 
I  talked  to  her,  too  —  about  myself.  Then  she  pro- 
posed it.  She  gave  me  seventy  dollars  and  said  I  would 
get  seventy  dollars  from  her  each  week  and  a  thousand 
dollars  more  when  it  was  finished.  I  was  to  watch 
everything  that  went  on  in  the  house.  I  was  to  watch 
you  —  if  there  was  any  trouble  between  you  and  your 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  277 

father  and  mother  and  when  you  went  out  and  came  in. 
I  was  to  look  at  your  mail  as  much  as  I  could  and  listen, 
at  the  telephone.  I  was  to  find  out  if  you  were  writing 
to  Mr.  Proctor  and  he  to  you  and  if  you  made  appoint- 
ments with  him.  I  was  to  write  it  down  and  mail  it  to 
her  every  day  that  anything  happened.  Martha  Woods 
is  her  name.  The  address  is  Room  641,  Rosser  Build- 
ing, Adams  Street.  That  is  how  it  began." 

Jenny  drew  a  tremulous  breath  and  went  on  with  her 
recital :  "  Then  Martha  Woods  telephoned  to  me. 
She  had  arranged  with  me  how  she  should  do  that,  in 
case  anything  turned  up  —  in  such  a  way  that  the  other 
servants  wouldn't  suspect  anything.  She  telephoned 
me  and  I  met  her  at  the  same  place  over  town.  She 
said  I  was  to  keep  watch  of  the  library  that  evening  for 
a  coloured  man  was  to  call  on  Mr.  Dinsmore  at  half 
past  eight.  They  would  be  in  the  library.  If  I  found 
out  what  happened  I  would  get  fifty  dollars  extra." 

Jenny's  nervous  eyes  questioned  her  mistress  a  mo- 
ment. "  Perhaps  you  know  about  that  coloured  man 
coming  to  the  house.  He  comes  every  month  and  sees 
Mr.  Dinsmore  in  the  library." 

She  paused  a  little,  as  though  for  an  answer;  and 
Louise,  remembering  the  coloured  caller,  said  nothing. 

"  You  know  the  big  leather  lounge  in  the  library," 
Jenny  continued.  "  I  hid  under  that.  The  coloured 
man  came  in  and  Mr.  Dinsmore  gave  him  some  money 
out  of  a  drawer  in  the  library  table.  Mr.  Dinsmore 
said,  *  How  is  Collins  ? '  and  the  coloured  man  said 
something  about  his  being  at  a  club.  That  was  all 


273  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

they  said.  Then  the  coloured  man  went  out,  with  the 
money  in  a  brown  leather  bag.  I  wrote  that  to  Martha 
Woods.  She  paid  the  extra  fifty  dollars.  She  has  al- 
ways paid  promptly.  Then  another  man  came  to  see 
Mr.  Dinsmore, —  a  white  man.  .  .  . 

"  Mr.  Winthrop  came  here  that  evening.  He  and 
Mr.  Dinsmore  talked  in  the  library.  That  was  right 
after  dinner.  They  were  doing  something  to  the  tele- 
phone. Then  they  went  up  stairs  and  Mr.  Winthrop 
went  in  Mr.  Dinsmore's  den  and  Mr.  Dinsmore  went 
down  stairs.  The  door  was  open  a  little.  I  heard  Mr. 
Winthrop  at  the  telephone  up  there.  He  said  he  could 
hear  very  well.  I  thought  they  had  fixed  the  telephone 
so  Mr.  Winthrop  could  sit  up  stdirs  and  hear  what  was 
said  in  the  library.  .  .  ." 

This  was  the  crucial  point,  and  Jenny  hesitated  an 
instant ;  but  went  on,  "  I  watched  a  chance  and  hid 
under  the  lounge  in  the  library  again.  Soon  Mr.  Dins- 
more  came  back  there  and  talked  to  the  telephone  again 
and  I  was  sure  he  was  talking  to  Mr.  Winthrop  up 
stairs.  Then  a  strange  man  came  in.  I  could  see  a 
little  now  and  then,  you  know,  peeking  under  the  lounge 
cover.  This  man  had  his  hair  brushed  up  at  the  sides 
like  that  dark  young  man  in  the  barber  shop  right 
across  from  the  railroad  station.  He  sat  at  one  side 
of  the  table  and  Mr.  Dinsmore  sat  at  the  other.  They 
did  not  say  *  Good  evening '  to  each  other." 

Jenny's  nervousness  increased  and  she  was  obviously 
tacking  away  from  the  main  point,  as  though  her 
courage  and  breath  failed  her. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  279 

"  They  talked  some  time  —  not  raising  their 
voices,"  she  said  and  bit  her  lip  to  keep  it  from 
twitching. 

"  What  did  they  talk  about?  "  Louise  asked,  by  way 
of  bringing  her  to  the  point.  "  I  want  the  exact  truth, 
remember." 

Jenny  took  a  shuddering  breath  and  plunged  at  it: 
"  This  strange  man  said  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  helped  to 
rob  a  bank  thirty-one  years  ago  at  a  place  out  in 
Nebraska.  .  .  .  He  said  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  shot  the 
cashier  of  the  bank  and  killed  him.  He  said  Mr.  Dins- 
more  had  been  paying  this  coloured  man  money  all  the 
time  because  the  coloured  man  knew  about  it." 

Now  that  she  had  plunged,  she  rushed  on  with  it 
desperately :  "  He  said  the  cashier  had  shot  Mr.  Dins- 
more,  too,  and  wounded  him.  He  said  a  doctor  out 
there  had  attended  Mr.  Dinsmore.  He  said  this  man 
who  was  shot  —  the  one  the  doctor  attended  —  gave 
the  name  Tom  Wilson  and  his  chin  had  been  broken,  so 
he  had  a  big  scar  across  it.  He  said  they  had  found 
the  doctor  and  brought  him  here  to  Chicago  and  he  had 
looked  at  Mr.  Dinsmore  and  would  swear  Mr.  Dinsmore 
was  the  same  man.  He  said  this  man  who  had  been  shot 
had  lost  his  cuff  button.  The  cuff  button  had  fallen 
out  of  his  shirt  and  the  doctor  had  picked  it  up  —  at 
the  time  when  the  doctor  attended  him  —  and  this  cuff 
button  had  the  initials  A.  D.  on  it.  He  showed  Mr. 
Dinsmore  the  cuff  button.  He  said  he  must  have  two 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  and  they  talked  a 
while  and  Mr.  Dinsmore  said  he  would  send  him  seventy- 


280  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

five  thousand  dollars  in  the  morning  and  the  man  went 
away." 

Jenny's  breath  completely  failed  then  and  she  sat 
with  her  lips  apart,  her  thin  breast  labouring.  Louise's 
eyes  had  grown  even  rounder  and  the  colour  had  washed 
out  of  her  face.  She  confronted  the  maid,  a  marble 
mask  of  astonishment.  For  a  moment  nothing  more 
was  said;  then  Jenny  plunged  again: 

"  The  next  day  Martha  Woods  telephoned  me  again. 
Certainly  I  didn't  wish  her  telephoning  often  or  coming 
to  the  house.  She  telephoned  me  —  saying  to  Tillson 
as  before  it  was  my  cousin  who  had  come  to  town.  So 
I  went  to  the  telephone  and  it  was  Martha  Woods.  She 
said  that  without  fail  I  must  go  to  the  corner  of  Elm 
and  Locust  Streets  at  a  quarter  to  five  and  meet  a  man 
who  would  be  waiting  for  me  there;  that  he  was  the 
man  who  was  paying  me  the  money  and  he  wanted  to 
ask  me  some  questions  and  I  must  do  it  without  fail  and 
I  would  get  a  hundred  dollars.  You  see,  she  didn't  say 
it  in  just  those  words,  for  fear  somebody  might  over- 
hear; but  I  knew  what  she  meant.  I  didn't  like  to  do 
that.  It  seemed  dangerous ;  but  she  said  I  must  and 
I  knew  then  from  what  I  had  overheard  the  evening  be- 
fore that  it  was  a  big  thing,  with  a  great  deal  of  money 
in  it.  I  met  the  man.  He  was  waiting  for  me  on  the 
corner.  He  was  a  savage-looking  man  and  I  said  noth- 
ing to  him  about  what  I  had  overheard.  He  asked  me 
whether  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  gone  down  town  the  night 
before.  I  said  he  had.  I  had  heard  it  from  the  serv- 
ants. He  had  changed  his  clothes  and  gone  down  town 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  281 

and  stayed  away  all  night  and  in  the  morning  Benj  amin 
took  some  other  clothes  down  to  his  office  for  him. 
That  was  the  day  before  yesterday.  .  .  .  That  is  all 
true,  Miss  Louise  —  just  exactly  as  I  have  told  you." 

"  And  this  man  you  met  —  did  he  give  a  name  ?  Do 
you  know  who  it  was  that  hired  you?  "  Louise  asked. 

"  No,"  Jenny  replied.  "  The  only  name  I  know  is 
the  woman's  —  Martha  Woods  —  and  the  address 
Room  641,  Rosser  Building,  Adams  Street." 

A  moment  later,  Louise  asked,  "  Is  that  all  —  every- 
thing? " 

"  Yes,"  Jenny  replied ;  "  only  the  strange  white  man 
that  came  here  said  Mr.  Dinsmore  had  run  away  from 
home  that  time  out  in  Nebraska.  .  .  .  He  would  be, 
you  see,  a  young  man  then  —  twenty-one  or  so."  She 
hesitated  an  instant,  tremulously  regarding  her  mis- 
tress, and  suggested,  "  I  think  Mr.  Winthrop  must  have 
heard  it  —  what  this  strange  white  man  said  to  Mr. 
Dinsmore.  He  was  up  stairs  in  Mr.  Dinsmore's  den. 
They  had  fixed  the  telephone.  I  think  Mr.  Winthrop 
must  have  heard  it.  ...  That  is  all." 

There  was  another  little  silence  and  Louise  said, 
"  Very  well ;  there's  nothing  further  now."  It  was  a 
strange  situation  for  mistress  and  maid  and  Louise's 
eyes  acknowledged  it,  but  there  was  no  other  acknowl- 
edgment. 

"  Thank  you,"  Jenny  murmured  in  the  manner  of  a 
well-trained  servant,  and  arose  and  left  the  room  with 
the  pearls  tightly  held  in  her  thin  hand.  And,  after 
all,  the  pearls  were  the  great  fact.  She  believed  their 


282  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

commercial  value  was  thirty  thousand  dollars.  Noth- 
ing else  mattered  much,  because,  for  her,  life's  grand 
problem  was  solved. 

Louise  watched  the  familiar,  thin,  black-clad  figure 
leave  the  room  with  the  odd  sense  of  its  being  a  quite 
unknown  person.  .  .  . 

Absurd,  of  course!  That  was  her  instinctive  reac- 
tion to  it  —  absurd  and  completely  incredible.  But  she 
knew  her  father  did  pay  a  coloured  man  money.  .  .  . 
Absurd!  .  .  .  Feeling  that  she  shouldn't  do  it  and  was 
acting  in  an  unreasonable  way,  she  got  out  a  classified 
telephone  directory  and  ran  her  finger  down  the  list  of 
detective  agencies  until  she  came  to  "  Morden  Detective 
Agency,  Rosser  Building,  Adams  Street."  So  there 
was  a  detective  agency  at  the  address  Jenny  had  given. 
Undoubtedly  it  had  been  real  money  that  somebody  was 
paying  to  Jenny  and  to  the  man  Ned  Proctor  had  men- 
tioned. .  .  . 

Presently  she  slipped  out  into  the  hall  and  down  it 
to  her  father's  den.  The  door  was  open.  There  was 
the  table,  the  chair  —  the  telephone,  which  she  regarded 
with  fascinated  eyes.  The  room  turned  a  familiar  face 
to  her  and  yet  a  face  completely  strange.  There,  by 
Jenny's  story,  Lowell  Winthrop  had  sat  and  overheard 
what  the  strange  man  said  to  her  father  down  in  the 
library.  What  her  father  had  said  to  herself  and  her 
mother  the  next  evening  insisted  upon  coming  back  into 
her  mind.  He  had  said  Lowell  had  found  him  in  a 
disgraceful  situation  and  so  broken  the  engage- 
ment. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  283 

Her  mind  was  full  of  matter  so  strange  and  bewilder- 
ing that  it  seemed  fairly  to  belong  to  some  other  person, 
and  she  had  an  oddly  uprooted  feeling  as  though  her 
life  had  been  violently  pulled  up  and  cast  into  a  new 
place.  Nothing  fitted  in  the  old  way.  .  .  . 

She  was  back  in  her  own  room  and  noted  that  it  was 
only  a  quarter  past  six  —  an  hour  and  a  quarter  to 
dinner  time.  Her  father  would  be  coming  home  about 
now,  and  she  remembered  that  she  had  resolved  to  have 
it  out  with  him  at  the  first  chance  —  before  dinner  if 
possible  —  in  case  Jenny  confirmed  her  suspicion. 
That  resolution  had  a  strange  look  now,  like  everything 
else.  Jenny's  narrative  had  changed  everything.  .  .  . 

She  walked  aimlessly  over  to  the  window,  her  mind 
without  anchor  or  compass,  going  in  its  own  way  now. 
It  was  saying  to  her  that  he  was  only  twenty-one  or  so 
at  the  time  —  hardly  more  than  a  boy.  Boys  got  into 
scrapes  —  queer  accidents  happened  —  in  this  queerest 
world. 

His  car  rolled  through  the  grounds  and  up  to  the 
door.  She  saw  him  get  out  of  it  in  his  usual  vigorous 
way  and  enter  the  house;  and  she  remembered  that  the 
last  two  days  he  had  looked  worn  and  disturbed,  as 
though  he  were  very  tired,  or  ailing.  Somehow,  she 
felt  a  deep  hunger  to  see  him  closer.  ...  In  spite  of 
his  temper,  her  father  was  the  handsomest  man  in  the 
world  of  his  age  —  with  his  air  of  cool,  competent  dar- 
ing and  the  subdued  humour  peeping  out  from  behind 
it.  So  strong  and  able,  he  looked!  .  .  . 

Morden  Detective  Agency  —  a  great  deal  of  money. 


284  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

She  couldn't  really  understand  it,  but  she  felt  the  dogs 
were  biting  at  him  now;  also  felt  a  deep  hunger  to  see 
him  closer. 

When  she  went  down  stairs  at  a  quarter  of  seven  she 
was  wondering  how  she  would  meet  him,  for  the  absurd 
idea  that  he  must  know  what  Jenny  had  told  her  kept 
presenting  itself.  She  went  into  the  living  room  and 
saw  him  there  alone,  sitting  in  an  easy  chair,  his  eyes 
on  the  rug.  Again  she  thought  he  looked  worn.  Then 
something  else  caught  her  eye  and  her  heart  as  in  a 
trap  —  his  neatly  trimmed,  greying  beard.  By 
Jenny's  story  that  hid  a  fatal,  lifelong  scar.  At  that, 
the  whole  import  of  Jenny's  story  flashed  up,  as  though 
it  had  been  suddenly  thrown  on  a  screen  theretofore 
dim,  or  as  though  some  one  had  shouted  "  Murder ! " 
As  though  his  beard  became  transparent  she  seemed  to 
see  a  frightful  mark  upon  him. 

She  was  near  his  chair  then  and  he  looked  up,  aware 
of  her,  with  a  slight  smile  —  perhaps  faintly  wistful  — 
saying  as  usual,  "  How  are  you,  daughter?  " 

She  slipped  down  to  her  knees,  looking  him  in  the  face 
beseechingly  and  said,  "  I  love  you  with  all  my  might, 
daddy,"  and  with  a  continuance  of  the  same  motion 
folded  her  arms  on  his  lap  and  laid  her  head  upon  them. 

Dinsmore  laid  his  hands  on  her  glossy  head  and  strug- 
gled as  though  under  a  great  blow,  biting  his  lip. 
"  Dear  little  Louie,"  he  said  huskily.  When  she  looked 
up  she  saw  with  awe  that  tears  were  running  down  his 
face. 

She  snuggled  closer,  and  got  an  arm  around  him, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  285 

resting  her  head  on  his  breast,  saying  —  in  a  deep  little 
confidence  between  them  — "  We  shouldn't  have  quar- 
relled, should  we,  daddy?  " 

"  No,  sweetheart,"  he  replied.  "  It's  been  the  bitter- 
est thing  that  ever  happened  to  me.  It  was  my  fault." 

"  No ;  it  was  my  fault,"  she  said,  hugging  him  and 
weeping.  "  We'll  never  do  it  again." 

That  was  the  way  she  really  had  it  out  with  him. 
Yet  at  the  dinner  table  amazement  kept  stealing  over 
her  mind,  for  he  laughed,  his  eyes  shone,  he  joked.  And 
she  couldn't  help  looking  at  his  beard.  Was  Jenny's 
story  a  dream,  after  all? 

She  had  simply  to  give  it  up  —  for  the  present.  And 
for  the  present  Ned  Proctor  must  wait. 

When  they  were  alone  a  minute  just  before  bed  time, 
she  whispered,  "  Are  you  in  trouble,  daddy?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied,  and  kissed  her ;  "  You've  ended  the 
trouble."  Then  he  said,  "Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  I  thought  you  looked  troubled,"  she  answered  — 
giving  it  all  up  again. 


CHAPTER  XI 

r  I  iHE  twerty-eight  hours  that  Dinsmore  prescribed 
JL  until  they  should  meet  again  at  the  Consolidated 
Bank  were  anxious  hours  for  McMurtry  and  Morden, 
yet  hopeful  —  a  brief  time  of  trial  with  millions  at  the 
end! 

Their  chief  anxiety  was  with  regard  to  James  Col- 
lingwood.  Leaving  the  lawyer's  office  after  the  inter- 
view with  Dinsmore,  Morden  repaired  to  Luke's  Hotel. 
Such  nosing  about  as  he  was  able  to  do  without  exciting 
too  much  curiosity  left  a  doubt  as  to  whether  Colling- 
wood  had  been  in  the  hotel  since  the  detective  searched 
his  room  the  night  before ;  at  least,  Morden  wasn't  able 
to  satisfy  himself  that  the  man  had  been  there.  Never 
very  conservative  in  his  methods  he  finally  found  his 
ally,  the  porter,  and  had  another  look  at  the  room.  It 
seemed  exactly  as  when  he  had  visited  it  before.  At 
any  rate,  the  man's  belongings  were  there,  even  to  his 
trunk  and  battered  old  travelling  bag.  Presumably  he 
would  return.  Morden  then  engaged  a  brother  de- 
tective to  shadow  the  hotel  for  him  and  report  as  soon 
as  Collingwood  did  return.  That  was  as  far  as  he  could 
well  go  under  the  circumstances. 

"  He  may  have  skipped,"  the  detective  observed 
grumpily  to  McMurtry  as  they  canvassed  this  situa- 
tion late  in  the  afternoon. 

"  Well,  say  he  has,"  the  lawyer  replied  confidently. 
286 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  287 

"  A  man  can't  skip  very  far  in  two  days.  We  can  get 
him  back  if  we  need  him."  He  twinkled  over  it  a  mo- 
ment and  continued,  postively,  "  But  we  won't  need 
him.  I've  thought  this  case  all  over  —  every  inch  of 
it.  We've  got  Dr.  Dill's  positive  identification,  and 
we've  got  Dinsmore  cinched  —  absolutely !  He  can't 
get  away  from  it  and  he  knows  it.  Everything  checks 
up.  I  said  in  the  beginning  that  if  Dinsmore  had  been 
paying  blackmail  all  these  years,  the  negro's  story  was 
true.  It  is  true.  It  all  checks  up.  Dr.  Dill  confirms 
it.  Why,  it's  so  plain  that  Dinsmore  don't  even  enter 
a  denial.  If  there  was  the  least  chance  in  the  world  for 
him  to  contradict  it,  do  you  think  he'd  have  gone  as 
far  with  us  as  he  has  ?  Not  for  a  minute !  No  chance 
of  it.  He'd  have  told  us  to  go  to  the  devil.  He's 
already  paid  down  seventy  five  thousand  dollars  in  good 
money." 

"  That  you  pocketed,"  Morden  reminded  him,  ill- 
naturedly. 

"  We'll  square  that,  Jake,"  McMurtry  put  in  hastily 
• —  regretting  his  friend's  bad  manners  in  rubbing  it 
in. 

Having  touched  upon  this  subject  of  conspiratorial 
honour,  Morden  was  naturally  reminded  of  the  third 
member,  so  he  asked,  "What  about  Purcell?" 

"  We'll  give  Charley  a  good  show,  of  course,"  Mc- 
Murtry replied,  as  though  among  friends  there  could 
be  no  question  of  that. 

"How  much?"  Morden  asked,  with  brutal  direct- 
ness. He  proposed,  in  fact,  to  be  a  party  to  the  set- 


288  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

tlement  with  Purcell  —  or,  rather,  he  proposed  that 
McMurtry  shouldn't  hold  out  anything  on  him  in  that 
connection. 

The  lawyer  understood  that  and  diplomatically  swal- 
lowed whatever  reflection  on  his  honesty  it  might  imply. 
Taking  up  a  pencil  he  did  a  little  sum  in  short  division, 
and  remarked,  "  One  third  of  half  a  million  would  be 
a  hundred  and  sixty  thousand,  six  hundred  and  sixty- 
six  dollars." 

"  That's  a  great  plenty  for  him,"  Morden  growled. 
"  He's  got  no  more  sand  than  a  spring  chicken.  Half 
of  that  would  do." 

"  Well,  we  want  to  keep  Charley  good  natured," 
McMurtry  rejoined,  good-naturedly  himself.  "You 
see,  he  got  Pomeroy's  original  story.  That's  some- 
thing of  a  point,  now  that  Pomeroy  is  dead  —  and  our 
doctor  may  up  and  die  on  pur  hands  any  hour.  He 
looks  as  though  he  was  due  at  the  hospital  now.  This 
Dinsmore's  a  tough  customer.  We  don't  want  to  send 
Charley  Purcell  trafficking  with  him  behind  our  backs. 
If  Dinsmore  once  got  hold  of  him  he  might  cook  up 
something  that  would  queer  us  for  good.  We  can  af- 
ford to  keep  Charley  good  natured." 

"  Well  —  I  suppose  so,"  the  detective  assented. 

"  Certainly ! "  said  McMurtry  with  conviction. 
"  You  see,  Dinsmore's  paying  the  shot ;  we're  not.  We 
can  afford  to  be  pretty  generous  with  his  money."  He 
did  a  further  little  sum  in  arithmetic.  "  Giving 
Charley  a  hundred  and  sixty-six  thousand,  six  hundred 
and  sixty-six  dollars  will  leave  eight  hundred  and  thirty- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  289 

three  thousand,  three  hundred  and  thirty-three  for  you 
and  me  to  divide." 

"  Seventy-five  thousand  out  of  yours,"  Morden  re- 
minded him  ruthlessly. 

Ignoring  that  exhibition  of  bad  manners,  McMurtry 
continued,  "  Out  of  the  first  million.  There'll  be  an- 
other million  pretty  soon." 

He  contemplated  the  figures  with  a  sort  of  fascina- 
tion, an  avid  glow  rising  in  his  mind ;  a  grin  overspread 
his  swarthy  face  and  there  was  an  uncanny  glee  in  his 
chuckle. 

"  Lord,  man,  there's  a  killing  for  you !  "  he  exulted. 
"  It's  a  bear-cat !  " 

Morden  realized  all  that  as  much  as  his  friend  did; 
but  in  his  mind  there  was  a  firm  determination  not  to 
be  "  done  "  at  any  point  by  this  same  friend.  He  pro- 
posed to  take  a  hand  in  all  the  settlements ;  so,  with  no 
outward  response  to  his  friend's  exultant  outburst,  he 
said,  "  We  may  as  well  get  Purcell  over  here.  He'll 
want  to  know  how  it's  going  anyway." 

Again  McMurtry  quite  understood  his  motive;  but 
in  fact  he  had  been  wanting  to  get  rid  of  Morden  in 
order  to  have  a  talk  with  Purcell,  for  the  managing- 
editor  had  been  kept  in  the  dark,  and  put  off  with  brief 
cryptic  telephone  messages,  as  long  as  it  was  safe. 
Charley  must  be  kept  good-natured.  So  to  Morden's 
suggestion  he  assented  with  a  cheerful,  "  All  right," 
and  reached  for  the  telephone. 

Before  using  the  instrument,  however,  he  reflected  a 
moment  and  asked,  "  What  would  we  best  tell  him?  " 


290  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Tell  him  Dinsmore's  coming  through  with  half  a 
million  day  after  tomorrow,"  the  detective  replied 
promptly. 

"  I  don't  believe  we  best  make  it  quite  as  positive  as 
that,"  said  McMurtry  thoughtfully,  hand  on  telephone. 
"  We'll  tell  him  about  what  has  happened,  and  that 
Dinsmore's  hooked  —  sure  —  and  we've  struck  for  half 
a  million  and  he's  asked  till  day  after  tomorrow  to  raise 
the  money." 

"  Well,"  Morden  assented,  in  grumpy  indifference  to 
the  finer  details. 

So  McMurtry  telephoned  and  about  fifteen  minutes 
later  the  gaunt  managing  editor  entered  the  room  — 
in  a  nervous  state  from  many  hours  of  suspense  and 
conflicting  hopes,  fears  and  suspicions.  To  him  the 
lawyer  affably  and  cheeringly  explained  the  situation 
as  he  and  Morden  had  agreed.  Purcell  listened,  once 
or  twice  wetting  his  dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his  tongue, 
once  shaving  them  with  his  bent  forefinger,  and  all  the 
while  with  wavering  lights  playing  in  the  depths  of  his 
cavernous  brown  eyes.  Of  course,  he  had  to  accept 
their  statement,  but  there  was  a  persistent,  leaden  mis- 
giving in  his  heart.  He  knew  he  was  pretty  completely 
in  their  hands  and  he  didn't  really  trust  them. 

"  It's  a  cinch,  Charley  —  a  bear-cat !  "  McMurtry 
repeated,  in  pursuit  of  his  duty  of  heartening  his  more 
lumpy  partners  in  crime.  "  At  this  time  tomorrow 
you'll  be  a  rich  man.  Meanwhile,  just  sit  tight." 

There  was  obviously  nothing  else  to  do,  and  on  the 

}7  back  to  the  newspaper  office  Purcell  heartened  him- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  291 

self.  They  couldn't  double-cross  him;  he  knew  as 
much  of  the  affair  as  they  did ;  they'd  got  to  give  him 
a  share  of  the  money.  Holding  to  that  assurance  he 
waited  —  a  long,  nerve-racking  time  with  nothing 
whatever  happening  out  of  the  usual  mechanical 
routine,  and  no  sign  anywhere  that  a  great  drama  in 
which  he  was  cast  for  the  role  of  a  rich  man  was  shaping 
itself,  until  twenty-five  minutes  of  three  the  next  after- 
noon. Then  he  received  a  startling  telephone  call. 

McMurtry  and  Morden  waited  also,  with  nothing 
happening  —  especially,  as  Morden's  shadow  reported, 
with  no  sign  of  James  Collingwood  at  Luke's  Hotel. 
That  was  vexing,  yet  McMurtry  insisted  that  they 
didn't  really  need  him,  and  if  they  should  need  him  they 
could  find  him. 

Three  o'clock  was  the  hour.  They  both  consulted 
their  watches  twice  or  thrice  as  that  hour  drew  near. 
At  five  minutes  of  three  they  were  walking  down  La 
Salle  Street,  as  innocent-looking  to. the  casual  eye  as 
any  other  two  passengers  on  that  thronged,  bustling 
street.  The  big  clock  on  the  Board  of  Trade  tower 
showed  two  minutes  of  three  when  they  reached  the 
beetling  Consolidated  Bank  Building  that  loomed  far 
overhead.  They  paused  a  minute  —  not  to  seem  over- 
anxious —  then  passed  through  the  battery  of  glass 
doors  into  the  marble  lobby.  Wide  marble  steps 
straight  ahead  led  up  into  the  main  banking  room,  but 
Dinsmore  had  said  they  would  meet  in  the  safe  deposit 
vaults,  so  they  took  the  narrower  stairs  which  led 
downward  at  the  right. 


292  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Just  beyond  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  mighty  bars  of 
burnished  steel,  reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling  and  wall 
to  wall,  confronted  them.  Beyond  this  formidable 
barrier  lay  the  safe  deposit  vault  proper,  with  huge 
steel  doors  and  a  glimpse  of  the  seried  rows  of 
lacquered  boxes.  A  guard,  in  the  grey  uniform  and 
stiff  cap  of  the  bank's  private  constabulary  force, 
stood  at  the  ponderous  gate  in  the  barrier.  Another 
guard,  in  like  uniform,  stood  near,  and  approached 
the  visitors,  with  an  inquiring  look,  when  they  halted. 

"  We're  looking  for  Mr.  Dinsmore,"  said  the  lawyer. 

**  Yes,  sir,"  said  the  guard  and  consulted  a  little 
card  in  the  palm  of  his  hand.  "  Mr.  McMurtry  and 
Mr.  Morden  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  This  way,  please ;  Mr.  Dinsmore  is  waiting  for 
you,"  said  the  guard  in  a  way  which  subtly  implied  that 
it  was  a  great  honour  to  be  waited  for  by  Mr.  Dinsmore 
and  very  kind  of  Mr.  Dinsmore  to  be  waiting. 

He  led  them  away  from  the  steel  barrier  and  through 
an  anteroom  from  which  opened  a  number  of  parlours 
suitable  for  snug  business  conferences  —  parlours  of 
various  sizes ;  two  or  three  in  which  half  a  dozen  peo- 
ple might  gather,  and  two  in  which  twenty  or  more 
might  be  accommodated.  To  visitors  in  an  uneasy 
frame  of  mind  it  was  not  a  very  cheerful  place.  In 
spite  of  sedately  handsome  furnishings  it  looked  too 
cold  and  tight  and  steely  and  closely  guarded,  vaguely 
suggesting  a  place  that  might  be  easy  to  get  into  but 
exceedingly  difficult  to  get  out  of. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  293 

The  guard  led  them  to  the  closed  door  of  one  of  the 
smaller  parlours,  opened  it  and  stood  aside  for  them  to 
enter  —  with  an  official  smile  and  slight  nod.  Stepping 
in  they  saw  a  snug,  square  room  with  low  ceiling, 
grave  and  cold  in  tone,  the  walls  painted  a  steely  grey, 
a  grey  rug  on  the  cement  floor,  a  severe  but  highly 
polished  oak  table,  several  chairs.  Their  eyes  took  in 
an  impression  of  it  and  an  impression  that  it  was 
empty.  But  at  the  next  step  they  saw  two  men  stand- 
ing over  at  the  right  so  that  the  opened  door  hid  them 
from  any  one  on  the  threshold.  Evidently  the  men 
had  been  engaged  in  conversation  and  at  the  opening 
of  the  door  had  paused,  turning  their  faces  that  way. 

McMurtry,  who  was  ahead,  saw  them ;  then  Morden ; 
and  from  that  instant  neither  of  them  had  eyes  or  wits 
for  anything  else. 

One  of  the  men  was  the  lean,  big-handed,  big-footed 
managing  editor  of  the  Leader.  The  other  man  was 
Alfred  Dinsmore,  clean-shaven,  presenting  a  chin  as 
smooth  and  scarless  as  any  in  the  room.  It  was  Dins- 
more  who  finally  broke  the  thrilled  silence : 

"  Of  course,  you  lied  to  me  about  not  having  an  asso- 
ciate," he  said  coolly.  "  I  knew  that.  You  lied  to  this 
man,  too.  You  lied  to  each  other.  Three  rogues  that 
can't  stick  together  three  days  aren't  very  formidable. 
I  have  Dr.  Dill's  affidavit  about  the  scar  on  the  man's 
chin  and  so  on.  You  can  examine  my  chin  with  a 
microscope  if  you  like.  I'll  tell  you,  if  you  care  to 
know,  I  was  never  in  Billingtown,  Nebraska,  in  my  life. 
I  pensioned  William  Pomeroy  for  my  own  reasons. 


294  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

You  two  can  get  out  now.  If  you  ever  lift  a  finger 
against  me  I'll  smash  you  if  it  breaks  me." 

He  spoke  coolly,  looking  straight  at  them,  and  as 
they  still  stood  paralysed  he  added,  after  a  brief  mo- 
ment, "  That's  all.  Get  out."  He  moved  to  the  table 
and  pressed  a  call  button  on  the  corner  of  it. 

Quite  mechanically,  Morden  turned  to  the  door.  As 
they  stepped  into  the  anteroom  the  guard  came  up, 
answering  Dinsmore's  ring,  and  they  heard  Dinsmore 
say  to  him,  "  Thank  you ;  it's  no  matter  now." 

They  found  themselves  on  the  broad  sidewalk.  It 
was  the  same  thronged,  busy  street,  the  same  towering 
buildings,  the  same  June  sunshine  up  above ;  nothing 
had  changed  —  hardly  even  the  Board  of  Trade  clock 
which  showed  only  two  minutes  past  three.  But  for 
all  that  it  was  an  utterly  different  world,  in  which  the 
two  passengers  couldn't  find  themselves. 

"  Purcell  sold  us  out,"  Morden  muttered  ominously. 

But  the  lawyer's  mind  was  not  so  stunned  as  that. 
He  perceived  that  the  crux  of  the  matter  lay  in  an 
entirely  different  direction.  "  That  damned  smooth 
chin,"  he  said  blankly.  "  He  has  got  Dill's  affidavit 
—  about  the  scar  and  so  on.  .  .  .  The  scar's  all 
through  it  ...  I  don't  make  it  out  —  yet." 

They  moved  automatically  up  the  street,  suddenly 
shipwrecked  and  vaguely  groping  for  a  new  bearing. 
But  they  found  none.  "  That  damned  smooth  chin," 
McMurtry  muttered  again  as  they  entered  his  office 
building. 

Meanwhile  Dinsmore  had  turned  to  Purcell  saying, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  295 

"  Of  course  they  would  have  swindled  you.  You're  a 
young  man.  You  can  do  better  than  tie  up  with  black- 
legs. I'm  willing  to  drop  this  where  it  stands.  But 
this  thing  started  with  you.  I  know  that.  Pomeroy 
went  to  you  with  his  story.  I'm  going  to  hold  you 
responsible.  If  the  thing  ends  here,  very  well;  I've 
nothing  more  to  say.  But  I  meant  exactly  what  I  said 
when  I  told  them  I'd  stand  no  more  nonsense  about  it. 
I  shall  look  to  you.  You're  young;  you  must  have 
ability  or  you  wouldn't  have  that  position.  Go  straight 
and  you've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of." 

Half  paralysed,  Purcell,  heart  in  boots,  could  only 
stammer  abjectly,  "  I  shouldn't  have  got  into  it,  Mr. 
Dinsmore  ...  I  was  tempted.  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Dinsmore,  not  unkindly.  "  Buck 
up  now ;  go  straight ;  you've  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  if 
you  do.  But  you  started  this.  I'm  going  to  hold  you 
responsible  for  the  other  two.  Keep  your  eye  on 
them." 

"  I  will,"  said  Purcell,  shakily. 

Dinsmore  smiled  and  replied,  "  Good  luck  to  you. 
That's  all." 

So  Purcell  also  found  himself  outside  in  a  familiar  yet    •-• 
quite  strange,  street ;  but  somehow  —  unlike  McMurtry 
and  Morden  —  feeling  tremendously  grateful  as  though 
he  had  barely  escaped  a  dire  peril. 

As  Purcell  left,  Dinsmore  started  to  follow;  but  he 
paused  on  his  way  to  the  door  and  put  his  hand  up  to 
his  face ;  then  smiled  as  he  realized  the  beard  was  gone. 
Taking  up  the  telephone  from  the  table  he  called  his 


296  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

house.  The  butler  answered  and  Dinsmore  gave  him 
this  message: 

"  Tell  Mrs.  Dinsmore  and  Louise  that  I'm  coming 
home  at  once  and  bringing  them  a  surprise." 

The  two  women  were  expecting  him,  therefore,  when 
he  drove  up  to  the  house  an  hour  later,  and  as  he 
stepped  into  the  living  room  his  wife  uttered  a  pro- 
longed note  of  amazement: 

"  Why,  Al-f red  Dins-more !  "  She  sprang  up  and 
ran  to  him,  laughing  in  a  joyous  excitement  and  ex- 
claiming, "Why,  Alf!  When  did  you  do  it?  Why 
didn't  you  tell  me  you  were  going  to?  You  know  I 
always  wanted  you  to !  "  And  she  fell  upon  him,  shak- 
ing him  and  hugging  him,  feeling  his  smooth  cheek 
with  her  hand,  still  bubbling  happy  laughter  and  ex- 
clamations :  "  You  might  have  told  me !  Oh,  I'm  so  glad 
you've  got  that  old  beard  off!  I  told  you  it  would 
make  you  younger  —  and  handsomer !  Doesn't  he  look 
just  a  boy  again,  Lou?  "  She  turned  her  shining  face 
to  her  daughter  and  at  once  gave  a  new  note  of  sur- 
prise, "  Why,  Louie !  Silly  child,  what  are  you  cry- 
ing for  ?  " 

Mysteriously,  the  tall  young  woman  seemed  trans- 
formed back  into  a  small  child  as  she  stood  looking  at 
her  father,  tears  running  down  her  face. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  murmured,  and  gave  a  helpless 
little  laugh  through  her  tears ;  "  only  I'm  glad !  " 
She  silently  put  an  arm  around  her  father's  neck  and 
laid  a  cheek  against  his.  Then  she  rubbed  her  hand 
over  his  chin  and  kissed  it  and  murmured  again, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  297 

with  a  helpless  little  laugh  through  her  tears,  "  I'm 
glad !  " 

"  Foolish,  Louie ! "  said  her  mother,  herself  sym- 
pathetically moved  almost  to  tears  by  something  mys- 
teriously childlike  in  her  daughter's  emotion.  She 
turned  to  her  husband,  bubbling  again,  "  I  told  you  it 
would  make  you  years  younger!  Why  didn't  you  tell 
me?" 

Smiling,  Dinsmore  explained  that  he'd  been  thinking 
of  shaving  his  beard  for  some  time,  but  he  hadn't  told 
her  because  he  wished  to  surprise  her ;  and  as  husband 
and  wife  talked  a  moment  in  that  strain,  Dinsmore  was 
furtively  regarding  his  daughter. 

"  Come !  Let's  show  your  mother  —  and  Cousin 
Elliot,  too !  "  Mrs.  Dinsmore  cried,  slipping  a  pretty 
hand  under  her  husband's  arm. 

From  where  they  stood  in  the  living  room  they  could 
see  Mrs.  Dinsmore  senior  and  Cousin  Elliot  sitting  out 
on  the  lawn  looking  at  the  lake  —  the  aged  woman  so 
blanched  and  frail  she  seemed  a  barely  embodied  spirit, 
and  Cousin  Elliot  gravely  happy  in  a  new  brown  linen 
suit. 

"  No,  wait  a  bit,"  Dinsmore  replied.  "  I  want  her 
to  be  prepared  a  little  beforehand.  Mother's  too  old 
for  any  shocks.  You  find  a  way  to  do  it,  Nell." 

So  a  little  later  Mrs.  Dinsmore  left  them.  Through 
the  east  windows  they  saw  her  move  across  the  lawn 
toward  the  older  pair  —  a  pleasing,  gracious  figure. 

"  So  you  approve  it  ?  "  Dinsmore  said  to  his  daugh- 
ter, in  a  light  tone,  smiling  a  little. 


298  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

"  Yes,  daddy,"  she  murmured  and  leaned  against  his 
shoulder,  her  eyes  downcast. 

He  considered  a  moment,  recalling  the  evening  be- 
fore, dropped  the  light  tone  and  asked  soberly,  "  Per- 
haps you've  heard  something,  Louie  —  something 
about  that  beard." 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

He  waited  a  moment  again  and  said,  "  It  occurred  to 
me  last  night  —  although  I  couldn't  imagine 
how.  .  .  ." 

"  I've  been  thinking  of  it  all  the  time,"  she  said,  low, 
with  downcast  eyes  ..."  Whether  or  not  I  ought  to 
tell  you  .  .  .  Maybe  you  ought  to  know  .  .  .  My 
maid,  Jenny,  left  today." 

He  could  make  nothing  coherent  out  of  those  dis- 
jointed hints;  but  he  could  form  a  vague  surmise.  He 
took  her  hand,  kissed  it,  and  tucked  it  under  his  arm, 
saying,  "  Let's  go  up  stairs." 

Up  in  his  den  she  preferred  to  sit  at  his  feet,  where, 
looking  stead.'ly  out  at  the  lake,  she  repeated  Jenny 
Dupee's  story,  concluding  —  in  the  same  hushed  voice, 
"  I've  been  thinking  of  it  ever  since  —  whether  I  ought 
to  tell  you  ...  It  seemed  you  ought  to  know." 

He  had  listened  to  the  recital  without  comment  or 
motion  and  was  silent  a  moment  after  she  finished,  and 
patted  his  knee  with  a  light  touch. 

"  I  see,"  he  said  ..."  Well,  it  was  high  time.  I 
should  have  cleaned  this  thing  up  long  ago.  I  didn't 
kill  that  man,  Lou.  I  was  never  in  Billingtown,  Ne- 
braska, where  he  was  killed  —  but  maybe  I  wasn't  very 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  299 

far  from  it  in  one  way.  I  wasn't  very  steady  as  a 
youth.  I  played  poker  and  did  plenty  of  other  fool 
things.  Suppose,  now,  I'd  got  into  a  great  mess  at 
home  and  struck  out  at  random,  without  any  money  to 
speak  of  and  so  on.  Suppose  I  had  fallen  in  with  a 
certain  gang  of  older  men.  .  .  . 

"  I've  wondered  a  thousand  times,  if  all  the  circum- 
stances had  been  right,  just  how  much  I  would  have 
balked  at  a  proposition  to  rob  a  country  bank  —  all 
easy  and  safe;  a  lark.  I  hope  to  God,  I  would  have 
balked.  I  think  I  would.  Yet  I've  wondered  a  thou- 
sand times  —  if  all  the  circumstances  had  been  just 
right  and  it  had  struck  me  like  robbing  an  apple 
orchard  on  a  bigger  scale.  I've  got  a  great  fault,  dear 
girl;  I'm  not  enough  afraid  .  .  .  But  I  didn't. 

"  Four  men  robbed  that  bank.  The  leader  was 
named  Colby  —  a  county  fair  fakir  and  great  rascal. 
There  was  a  negro  named  William  Pomeroy  who  was 
a  sort  of  man  Friday  and  body-guard  of  his.  And 
there  was  a  man  that  lived  out  there  in  Billingtown, 
named  Sykes.  Then  there  was  a  young  man  whom  they 
called  Tom  Wilson.  The  cashier  surprised  them  at  it 
—  came  on  them  suddenly,  it  seems.  Wilson  fired  — 
in  sheer  panic,  no  doubt  —  and  killed  him.  But  the 
cashier  wounded  Wilson  and  he  was  taken  to  Sykes' 
house  where  a  Dr.  Dill  attended  him.  .  .  . 

"  Years  afterwards  Colby  and  Pomeroy  concluded 
that  I  was  Tom  Wilson.  I  let  them  think  so.  I  paid 
them  money.  Pomeroy  came  here  to  the  house  every 
month  and  got  six  hundred  dollars.  I  don't  know  just 


300  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

why,  but  Pomeroy,  the  negro,  got  dissatisfied.  He 
was  afraid  of  Colby,  with  very  good  reason.  No  doubt 
Colby  kept  most  of  the  blackmail  money  —  gave 
Pomeroy  what  he  judged  the  negro  ought  to  have. 
Pomeroy  got  dissatisfied ;  he  wanted  to  get  hold  of 
some  money  for  himself  and  get  away.  That  must 
have  been  running  in  his  head  a  long  time  —  how  he 
could  manage  to  do  that  without  Colby  finding  it  out 
until  he'd  got  the  money  and  disappeared. 

"  It's  hard  to  tell  just  what  goes  on  in  the  mind  of  a 
man  like  Pomeroy  —  a  good  deal  like  trying  -to  dig  back 
into  the  mind  of  a  monkey.  He  was  childishly  ignorant 
in  a  good  many  ways,  yet  with  a  kind  of  simian  shrewd- 
ness, too.  Well,  he  saw  in  the  newspapers  about  my 
libel  suit  against  the  Leader.  He  thought  the  Leader 
would  be  anxious  to  get  any  kind  of  a  hold  over  me.  So 
he  actually  went  up  to  the  Leader  office  and  asked  for 
the  editor  and  was  shown  in  to  a  sort  of  amateur  rogue 
named  Purcell,  the  managing  editor.  This  fellow  Pur- 
cell  got  him  to  tell  his  story,  but  the  negro  demanded 
some  sort  of  bond  first,  so  Purcell  —  gauging  his  man 
—  wrote  out  an  absurd  promise  to  pay  him  a  hundred 
thousand  dollars  in  case  he  felt  like  it,  for  that's  what 
it  amounted  to,  and  signed  J.  Wesley  Tully's  name  to 
it.  You  see,  it  was  two  blockheads  and  amateur 
rogues,  but  one  with  a  better  education  than  the  other. 

"  So  Purcell  went  with  the  story  to  a  blackleg  law- 
yer named  McMurtry  who  called  in  a  blackleg  detec- 
tive named  Morden  and  the  two  proposed  to  blackmail 
me  for  a  few  millions.  The  detective  went  out  to  Ne- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  301 

braska  and  found  Dr.  Dill  —  a  sad  old  bum,  all  shot 
to  pieces  with  drink  and  drugs  —  and  brought  him 
here.  He  cheerfully  identified  me  as  Tom  Wilson. 
Then  McMurtry  came  up  here  and  demanded  a  quarter 
of  a  million  dollars  and  I  agreed  to  pay  him  seventy- 
five  thousand  the  following  day,  which  I  did.  I  had  to 
gain  time  to  cast  around  and  see  how  I  could  protect 
myself.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  Pomeroy  —  with  that  curious  kind  of 
ignorant  shrewdness  of  his  —  had  said  that  John  Colby 
was  dead.  I  gathered  from  what  McMurtry  said  he 
even  charged  me  with  having  killed  him  in  some  way  or 
other.  Colby  had  an  odd  kind  of  knife  and  I  guess  the 
negro  told  them  I  had  such  a  knife.  Pomeroy  was 
mortally  afraid  of  Colby  and  was  shrewd  enough  to 
know  that  if  these  other  fellows  knew  Colby  was  alive 
they'd  probably  insist  on  bringing  him  into  it.  So  he 
told  them  Colby  was  dead.  Of  course,  he  wasn't  at  all. 
He  was  living  here  at  Luke's  Hotel  under  the  name  of 
James  Collingwood.  Probably  he'd  got  into  a  very 
bad  scrape  somewhere  and  thought  it  best  to  keep  an 
assumed  name.  I  don't  know  anything  about  it,  but 
that's  the  reasonable  presumption.  When  McMurtry 
began  talking  to  me,  I  saw  he  must  have  been  talking 
to  Colby  or  Pomeroy.  When  he  said  Colby  was  dead 
I  concluded  it  must  have  been  Pomeroy  and  that  Pom- 
eroy was  keeping  it  dark  from  Colby. 

"  Well,  I  wanted  to  shut  Pomeroy  up  and  get  him 
out  of  the  blackmailers'  reach,  and  I  was  satisfied  he 
was  acting  behind  Colby's  back.  So  soon  after 


302  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

McMurtry  left  the  house  —  as  soon  as  I  had  studied  it 
over  and  come  to  that  conclusion  —  I  went  down  town 
and  looked  up  Colby.  I  knew  where  he  was  apt  to  be 
found  —  a  poker  joint,  in  fact  —  and  I  changed  my 
clothes  for  I  didn't  want  to  attract  attention  in  that 
neighbourhood.  Well,  I  found  Colby  and  told  him  what 
had  happened,  and  was  more  than  ever  satisfied  that 
Pomeroy  was  acting  on  his  own  hook.  I  said  he  must 
find  Pomeroy  at  once  and  get  him  out  of  town  where 
the  blackmailers  couldn't  reach  him  and  then  we'd  think 
of  a  counter-stroke  against  them.  He  agreed  to  that. 

"  It  would  take  some  money,  of  course  —  for  they 
would  be  cut  off  from  the  base  of  supplies  for  a 
while.  I  said  I  would  go  over  to  a  hotel  and  engage  a 
room  and  wait  for  him  there,  while  he  found  Pomeroy 
and  got  ready  to  leave  town.  This  was  half  past  ten 
or  eleven  at  night,  you  know  —  not  a  very  good  time 
to  raise  cash.  I  went  over  to  the  club  and  got  what 
little  cash  they  had  there  and  found  a  young  chap  who 
knows  the  way  about  town  at  night.  He  went  out 
scouting  for  me.  The  upshot  was  I  got  twenty-three 
thousand  dollars.  Then  I  went  over  to  the  hotel  and 
waited  for  Colby.  It  was  some  time  between  two  and 
three  in  the  morning  when  he  appeared.  I  noticed  that 
he  had  changed  his  clothes  and  seemed  shaken  and  had 
been  drinking  a  good  deal.  .  .  . 

"  He  said  it  had  taken  him  a  good  while  to  find 
Pomeroy  and  Pomeroy  had  been  disposed  to  bluff  him 
off  at  first,  but  finally  had  confessed  and  agreed  to 
leave  town.  He'd  told  Colby  about  his  deal  with  Pur- 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  303 

cell  and  given  him  that  strange  document  which  pre- 
tended to  promise  a  hundred  thousand  dollars.  Colby 
showed  it  to  me,  and  I  kept  it.  That's  how  I  knew 
of  PurcelPs  part  in  it. 

"  That  was  Colby's  story.  He  and  Pomeroy  were 
all  ready  to  leave  town  then.  I  gave  him  the  money,  and 
he  went  out.  The  talk  took  some  time,  and  I  wanted 
to  think  a  while.  When  I  looked  at  my  watch  it  was 
twenty  minutes  past  three,  and  too  late  to  go  home,  so 
I  slept  at  the  hotel  and  had  some  different  clothes  sent 
down  to  the  office  in  the  morning." 

He  laid  his  hand  on  his  daughter's  head  and  was 
silent  a  long  moment  and  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Louie,  dear,  Colby  killed  Pomeroy  that  night." 

She  gave  a  sharp  little  gasp,  lifting  her  face  on  which 
the  shock  was  registered,  and  clutched  his  hand. 

"  He  killed  him,"  he  repeated.  "  It  must  have  been 
Colby  .  .  .  From  the  circumstances,  I'm  satisfied  he 
found  Pomeroy  and  talked  to  him  just  about  as  he  told 
me  and  made  him  agree  to  leave  town.  They  must  have 
left  Pomeroy's  lodging  house  together,  by  the  back 
door  —  Pomeroy's  suit  case  packed  ready  to  travel. 
It  seems  there's  a  dark  area  back  of  the  lodging  house 
—  next  the  alley  where  the  elevated  railroad  runs. 
Pomeroy  must  have  tried  to  break  away  there.  There 
must  have  been  a  fight.  I  tell  myself  that  Pomeroy 
suddenly  attacked  Colby  to  throw  him  off  and  break 
away.  Colby  struck  him  with  a  knife  ...  I  must 
have  it  that  it  happened  in  a  sort  of  self-defence. 
When  it  happened,  I've  no  idea.  Colby  changed  his 


304  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

clothes  and  came  to  me  and  got  the  money  and 
left.  .  .  . 

"  The  blackmailers  traced  that  out  and  charged  it 
up  to  me.  How  much  I'm  chargeable  with  it,  I'll  know 
Judgment  Day;  but  I  know  I  never  thought  of  it  be- 
fore hand. 

"  Well,  Pomeroy  and  Colby  were  gone.  There  re- 
mained Dr.  Dill.  I  contrived  that  he  should  make  an 
affidavit  identifying  me  as  Tom  Wilson  and  describing 
the  scar  on  Wilson's  chin.  Then  I  shaved  my  beard 
and  showed  them  my  chin.  I  calculate  that  check- 
mates Dr.  Dill  .  .  .  They're  check-mated  all  around, 
and  know  it.  As  I  told  them  this  afternoon,  if  they 
ever  wag  a  finger  against  me  again  I'll  smash  them. 
I'm  going  to  be  done  with  it  for  good  and  all.  I  ought 
to  have  been  done  with  it  long  ago.  ...  If  I  had 
cleaned  it  up  long  ago  I  wouldn't  have  this  bad  thought 
of  how  much  I'm  to  blame  for  the  poor  devil  Pomeroy. 
I  ought  to  have  done  it  long  ago.  .  .  . 

"  Of  course,  you're  wondering  why  I  didn't.  You've 
got  to  know  it  all  now.  You  know  I  had  an  older 
brother,  Arthur." 

The  fact  of  her  dead  uncle  had  been  in  her  mind  as 
far  back  as  she  could  remember  —  a  fact  to  which  only 
the  faintest,  most  vicarious  sort  of  emotion  attached  as 
she  had  never  seen  him.  But  with  a  sudden  prickling 
of  the  nerves  now  she  breathed,  "  Yes."  Her  father 
pondered  a  moment  before  resuming: 

"  Some  day  science  will  know  what  to  do  with  beings 
like  him,  but  it  doesn't  now.  He  was  two  years  older, 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  305 

and  as  far  back  as  I  can  remember  I  knew  there  was 
something  wrong  about  him.  There  was  something 
wrong  in  his  brain  —  a  grounded  circuit  .  .  .  Look- 
ing back  at  it  now,  I'd  hardly  say  he  was  vicious.  It 
was  hardly  that.  There  was  a  patch  somewhere  in  his 
brain  that  was  hardly  more  than  idiotic.  A  bad  boy 
was  what  they  said  about  him  then  —  what  they  would 
say  about  him  now.  Yet  in  many  moods  he  could  be 
kind  and  fond  —  kinder  and  fonder  than  most 
boys.  .  .  . 

"  Arthur  struck  out  at  random  and  fell  in  with  Colby 
and  helped  rob  the  bank  and  shot  the  cashier  —  a  child 
or  a  moral  idiot  with  a  gun.  And  after  a  while  — 
being  terribly  frightened,  wanting  comfort  and  protec- 
tion, and  with  the  same  sort  of  mental  incompetence  — 
he  confessed  the  whole  thing  to  his  mother.  Only  the 
crooked  brain  that  made  him  really  as  irresponsible  as 
a  child  could  have  made  him  do  that.  But  he  did 
it.  .  .  ." 

In  the  silence  a  great  sigh  escaped  him. 

"  You  can  imagine,  partly,  how  it  was  with  her. 
When  you  have  borne  a  child  and  cuddled  it  against 
your  breast  you  can  imagine  it  all.  He  had  been  her 
cross  —  to  which  she  clung.  Always  to  her,  you  see, 
he  had  been  her  crippled  child  —  her  hurt  babe  —  with 
that  terrible  wrong  thing  in  his  brain.  My  mother 
has  loved  me,  Louie,  as  normal  mothers  love  their  child- 
ren but  not  with  that  poignancy  of  love  which  she  felt 
for  him.  When  she  found  out  what  he  had  done  she 
could  see  only  one  thing  —  her  afflicted  flesh  and  blood 


306  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

bound  and  led  to  a  gallows,  a  rope  tied  around  his 
neck  and  the  life  choked  out  of  him.  It  was  a  thought 
she  could  not  endure.  There  is  a  passion  to  shield 
him  which  she  has  lived  on  for  thirty  years.  .  .  . 

"  Colby  was  partly  right,  you  see.  The  name  was 
Dinsmore.  In  time  he  found  her  and  blackmailed  her 
—  an  easy  prey  with  her  overwhelming  terror.  He 
blackmailed  her  for  years  before  I  knew  about  it. 
When  I  did  know  I  would  have  defied  him  and  fought  it 
out  right  there;  but  she  simply  could  not  bear  that. 
As  we  talked  it  over  —  I  insisting  — I  saw  that  the  idea 
of  fighting  it  out  —  standing  a  trial  if  necessary  — 
was  just  death  to  her.  She  simply  could  not  endure 
the  risk.  Although  that  shot  had  been  fired  many 
years  before,  the  thing  hadn't  at  all  died  down  in  her 
mind.  Her  conscience  wouldn't  let  it.  A  murder  had 
been  done.  The  hangman  stood  at  her  door  day  and 
night.  It  was  an  overwhelming  terror.  Of  course,  I 
had  to  3rield  —  and  have  paid  blackmail  ever  since." 

ft  Even  when  he  was  so  long  dead?"  she  said,  in 
wonder. 

"  He  was  sent  away  to  a  sanatorium  and  we  said  he 
was  dead,"  her  father  replied ;  "  for  that  trouble  in  his 
brain  grew  —  mercifully,  no  doubt  — until  he  became 
altogether  childish.  Look." 

He  was  pointing  to  the  window.  Looking  down- 
ward she  saw  her  gracious  mother,  her  white  grand- 
mother and  Cousin  Elliot,  sedately  happy  in  his  new 
linen  suit.  Her  startled  eyes  came  back  to  her 
father's  face. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  307 

"  Not,"  .  .  .  she  began  incredulously,  but  could  not 
finish. 

He  nodded,  saying,  "  If  he  shaved  his  beard  you 
would  see  the  scar.  As  long  as  he  lives  she  will  have 
the  same  terror  and  the  same  passion  to  shield  him. 
When  I  first  heard  of  the  blackmail  I  tried  to  show  her 
there  could  be  no  danger  —  beyond  a  terribly  unpleas- 
ant newspaper  sensation  and  so  on  —  for  he  was  then 
just  as  he  is  now.  But  she  could  not  endure  having  it 
brought  up.  You  see,  my  brother  really  is  dead, 
Louie.  Whatever  there  was  of  a  responsible  being  at 
the  time  the  shot  was  fired  died  long  ago.  For  many 
years  there  has  only  been  an  overgrown  infant  —  with 
once  in  a  while  a  shadowy,  sort  of  recollection.  But 
she  couldn't  endure  having  it  brought  up  at  all.  And 
as  I  looked  at  it  there  was,  after  all,  only  the  disagree- 
able little  business  of  dealing  with  an  old  rascal  of  a 
blackmailer.  The  money  didn't  matter  at  all.  I  said 
Colby  should  have  his  dirty  money  and  she  should  suf- 
fer no  more  shocks.  .  .  . 

"  You  know,  he  is  her  flesh  and  blood.  She  takes  the 
sin  to  herself  —  if  it  was  a  sin  for  a  being  with  his 
crooked  brain.  I  think  when  she  has  shielded  him  here 
she  means  to  offer  herself  in  expiation  hereafter.  I 
think,  too,  Hereafter  says  she  has  already  expiated 
whatever  sin  there  was.  .  .  . 

"  I'm  confident  it's  settled  now,  for  good.  All  these 
blacklegs  wanted  was  money  out  of  me.  With  me 
showing  a  smooth  chin  they  have  no  trail  to  follow,  for 
their  whole  story  hung  on  a  scarred  chin.  Of  course, 


308  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

my  wearing  a  beard  just  happened  at  first;  then  I 
kept  it  because  I  was  used  to  it.  Maybe  it  pleased  me 
to  wear  a  beard  when  most  men  went  smooth-shaven. 
But  afterwards,  when  I  heard  about  the  blackmail,  I 
kept  it  purposely  because  it  was  a  red  herring  across 
the  trail.  As  long  as  they  were  looking  to  me  they 
wouldn't  be  looking  for  another  Dinsmore.  In  that 
way  it  protected  her.  .  .  . 

"They  had  me  in  a  disagreeable  place.  I  played  a 
game  with  them,  and  at  what  I  thought  the  right  mo- 
ment shaved  my  beard  for  checkmate.  I'm  confident 
they  are  too  discouraged  now  to  go  further.  They 
might,  possibly,  try  to  find  Colby ;  but  he  has  three 
days'  start  and  is  an  old  hand  at  dodging.  Of  course, 
they've  no  interest  in  finding  him  unless  they  can  get 
me,  and  their  case  against  me  has  collapsed.  I'm  not 
afraid  of  them. 

"  You  see,  when  I  learned  about  this  blackmail  I  said 
that  after  all,  it  was  only  a  question  of  some  little  an- 
noyance and  paying  some  money  that  didn't  matter  to 
me  in  the  least.  Seeing  how  my  mother  felt,  I  said  I'd 
just  buy  Colby  off  and  done  with  it.  But  probably  it's 
only  grocery  bills  that  money  will  really  settle.  It 
finally  let  me  in  for  this  bad  Pomeroy  affair.  I'm 
•chargeable  with  something  there.  My  hands  aren't 
really  clean.  You  can't  do  dirty  business  and  keep 
clean." 

She  saw  that  he  was  moved,  and  said,  "  But  you 
never  meant  it,  father." 

"  No,  I  never  meant  it ;  but  it  happened  all  the  same. 


THE  SCARRED  CHIN  309 

I'm  chargeable  with  something.  There's  a  smudge  on 
my  hands  —  and  a  bad  thing  to  think  of.  I  haven't 
been  a  good  man,  daughter.  I've  been  too  headstrong 
and  confident  —  too  reckless,  I  suppose.  I  came  up 
here  to  Chicago  and  went  on  the  Board  of  Trade.  Of 
course,  the  grain  business  was  what  I  knew  about;  it 
was  my  father's  business.  I  liked  the  excitement  and 
the  risk.  I  liked  to  win.  Your  mother  can  tell  you 
that  I  got  my  name  in  the  newspapers  as  a  daring 
operator  and  all  that.  It  wasn't  very  good  for 
me.  .  .  ." 

She  saw  that  he  was  moved,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on 
her  head. 

"  When  you  were  a  little  girl,  four  years  old,  I  gave 
up  all  that.  On  your  account,  I  didn't  want  it.  I 
said  I'd  get  in  something  steadier  .  .  .  But  finally  I 
had  to  quarrel  with  you  over  young  Proctor,  who's 
probably  a  very  good  fellow,  too.  I  might  have  done  a 
lot  better  than  I  have  done,  Louie." 

"  It  was  my  fault  that  we  quarrelled,  daddy,"  she 
murmured  contritely,  and  kissed  his  hand. 

A  moment  later,  clasping  his  hand  and  looking 
toward  the  window,  she  said,  "  I  have  a  little  story  to 
tell,  too  ...  I  love  Ned." 

Having  told  that  much,  she  looked  up  at  him  and  told 
the  rest  —  her  mistake  about  Lowell  Winthrop ;  how 
fine  and  steadfast  Edward  Proctor  had  shown  himself 
in  adversity;  how  with  that  miserable  old  misunder- 
standing in  her  mind,  she  had  suspected  her  father  of 
hiring  a  spy  and  Edward  Proctor  had  defended  him. 


310  THE  SCARRED  CHIN 

Then  they  talked  further  of  the  most  intimate  subject 
father  and'  daughter  could  talk  about.  Finally  she 
said  - —  coaxing,  half  doubtful,  but  with  a  precious 
hope  : 

"  Do  you  think,  father  —  I  might  make  him  a  beauti- 
ful present  —  might  bring  him  a  very  beautiful  mar- 
riage gift?  " 

"  And  what  would  that  be?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  pay  off  those  savings  bank  depositors.  It's 
about  seven  hundred  thousand  dollars." 

He  smiled  down  at  her  upturned  face  and  replied, 
"  We'll  talk  that  over  with  him." 


THE    END. 


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